


Disembodied

by meyeswat (the_rogue_of_freud)



Series: Disembodied [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Near Death Experiences, Other, Violence, in which a robot and boy just go at it because they hate each other's guts, just in case!!! dont wanna be ThaT Guy who forgets to tag an important thing, some shitty dirkhal facsimile that is really not a good relationship?? dont do this shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rogue_of_freud/pseuds/meyeswat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a normal day, Dirk Strider comes to terms with who he may or may not be. The truth also may or may not be what he wanted to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Me, Myself, and I

**Author's Note:**

> his flesh consumed

Sometimes you have a feeling that it’s going to be a good day.  
Other times, such as this, you have the suspicion that it’s something much worse.

A pair of black glasses sits on the desk next to you, solitary save for a bottle of water and a couple loose screws sitting around. They rattle as the scaffolding supporting your secluded living arrangement shakes. You contemplate heading towards the roof before a metallic hand stops you in your tracks. Resting lightly on your left shoulder, the cool steel and somewhat animated joints tug at your shirt before releasing its grip with an almost silent whir. Legs raised in mid-step, you turn your head back to see what the hell just decided to grab you.

Unluckily for you, the hand belongs to the singular inhabitant other than you in this rickety old apartment is something you created.  
An artificial intelligence you made all too real, all too life-like.

“What exactly are you planning on doing with my shirt?” you say as your eyes roll over the unwavering expression of an assortment of steel and paint.”No, really, I’m curious. Are you going to use it for arts and crafts?” Expecting an equally snarky reply, you brace yourself for a barrage of complete sarcasm to hit your ears right about now. But it doesn’t come. It- no, he- stares and watches you, examining facial features, skin tone, the feel of your shoulder moving slowly under your well-worn shirt as you swivel on the ball of your foot to face him. Strangely, he just turns around, no words spoken, no gestures made. No beeps or similarly animatronic noises.

Weird, you think, and hesitantly start climbing the precariously perched ladder to the outside world.

The sun warms you, turning your skin an alien shade of tan. You don’t dare to look into the sun, or its many reflections waving in the water lapping at the metal structure supporting you. The gale is strong, mussing your hair into an unrecognizable mess. Rather than constantly going inside and correcting the carefully sculpted hair, you stay out, thinking about what might happen. There are several possibilities;  
One- he’s acting up for the millionth time and you need to go fix him.  
Two- he wants to interact but this specific scenario has been glossed over by you.  
Three- he wants to fuck with you.

Seeing as the third option might be the most plausible, albeit the growing suspicion that he just needs a spare bolt or two, you clamber back inside to confront him when he’s already standing directly in front of the ladder.

“Dirk.” This word seems to fall effortlessly out of the vocal box you’ve set up, almost perfectly mimicking a cool demeanor. But you know that he’s just a piece of metal.

Right on cue, as if reading your own thoughts, he steps uncomfortably close, getting all up in your business. He proceeds to do just that, actually, tilting your chin upward with a finger and placing his other hand flush against your chest, pushing you back so the wooden ladder presses into your skin. “Where the hell do you think you’re going.”

You now have the overwhelming desire to get out of that particular situation, but alas, the artificial arm prevents you from absconding to a different room. Quick with your mind, you put together a bullshit response. “Preferably out of this immediate area. Perhaps towards the kitchen to pick up a can of soda or maybe a sandwich.” Your stomach audibly grumbles to illustrate the point, though you could feel a lot more feelings than hunger right at this moment. Right now, you have this fucker to attend to.

That eerie voice crawls out of him again, saying, “I have a good idea of what you want to do, and eating seems the least probable. Despite your stomach making its appearance, I have half a mind to keep you here. Technically, I do.” He’s got you there, admittedly, and you fumble for words again. Before you can even say any more of the fragmented sentence you have in mind, he moves the finger lightly pressing under your chin upwards, and moving his other hand to your neck. There’s a chilling sensation going up your spine, and the fact that you have ice-cold appendages so close to your bloodstream doesn’t help either. You begin to wonder why you made the guy so damn cold when he speaks again, snapping you to attention.

“Sometimes I wonder how you tick. I have your thoughts, your possessions, I have relative sentience.” You stop breathing for a small second, heart stopping as you hear those words creep past his metal plates. More sentences stream out. “But I don’t have your organics. Your relationships. Most importantly, I don’t have you.” Digging his sharp thumb deeper into your throat, air access becomes more restricted, causing you to conserve your breath, treasure every second you might or might not have. He could kill you right now, or at least have some lasting damage. Daring not to speak, you let the robot continue with his monologue.

“Some part of me likes to see you like this. You have inner workings crazier than anyone could possibly fathom, such as the all-too-realized fact that you really don’t like yourself. Any iteration of you, you abhor. Your past self, your future self, and now this one right here. You don’t know anything else.” The grip tightens, cutting off your air flow. Seconds of precious oxygen remain before you pass out, or worse, asphyxiate. “Take that in for a moment. Your life of isolation has cut you off from everyone, including you. And it wasn’t even your choice. _This was meant to happen._ ”

Your vision blacks out and the last thing you feel is the warmth of the wall touching your back.

It’s night, and a red glow emanates from the dark confines of your apartment block. He’s gone back to his station to charge, _how cute_. You’re lucky that you’re even alive, considering you lost your air for a moment. Wandering into the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror, and your suspicions are confirmed. You have a red mark the size of a quarter on your windpipe. After a few moments, you slam the door closed and clamber onto the roof once more.

 

As you stare at the gleaming moon, only one thought crosses your mind.

_What sick part of you wants to see yourself die?_

 

You fall asleep on the night-cooled apartment ceiling. 


	2. Aubergine Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whispers from the Gods.

Your room is all coated in red, with orange text littering the walls where you yourself wrote it. It doesn’t mean anything, not right now. If anyone else could see it (and you’re certain they can’t, Roxy is still asleep), they’d probably think you were out of your mind, and dismiss any sort of notion you might have as to what the text might read.

 

There is a mirror in your room on Derse, which is a carbon copy of your room on Earth. In the mirror, you see yourself, your dark aubergine clothes (which everyone here is mandated to wear in one form or another-- clashes horribly, you think) meshing uncomfortably with your orange hair.  A quick peek outside reveals that the horrorterrors are at it again, eclipsing your moon.

 

You’re so close, in fact, that you could swear that a writhing tentacle grazed your dream tower. You’d look, but you have to get into position so as not to alarm anyone. They don’t know you’re awake.

 

They don’t know you’ve _always_ been awake.

 

You check the mirror and its reflective facade again to see that you have your best “impersonating asleep” face on before going outside. Several thoughts pass your mind, such as, ‘this is sort of redundant because I am already asleep, but whatever.’  A cautious step on the windowsill, and you’re off.

 

Your head lolls forward, your eyes nearly shut, only letting in a small amount of light to see with. If you were in a play, you’d think you would be a shoo-in for Sleeping Beauty, if she were male and also sixteen years old with the most offending haircut anyone in a fairytale had ever seen. No matter, because you float slowly upwards to get a glimpse of the Gods.

 

Whispers emanate from the dark masses, telling you of events, past, present, and future. Some are in different timelines, but the Gods, being the assholes they are, refuse to divulge which. This leaves you in a constant state of peril, not knowing whether or not the events described will ever come to fruition.

 

You have to be extra careful to not make any movements, because the entirety of the population of Derse is watching you fly in your feigned-sleep stupor.  A cold sweat breaks out on your forehead, and your hair stands on end at the nape of your neck.

 

Soft noises from up above ease your stresses, and you subtly crane your ears skyward as you hear the newest eldritch gossip.

 

You remind yourself never to call the prophecies that again.

 

A picture, painted in your mind’s eye, only tells a story that could happen, with no definites ever being revealed. Your AI, Li’l Hal, carrying a red, hollow box, inscribed with a white triangular spirograph shape. You’re standing in front of him, trying to negotiate your fate, when suddenly, he flings it on your head. It fits perfectly, and you struggle to get out, putting your hands on the sides, pulling it off.

 

But it is too late, because Hal has flicked the switch, and your head comes clean off like the useless piece of shit that it is. Your hands tense, heartbeat quickening. Beginning to fly back to your dream tower, the purple city disappears under the maroon floor. Gripping your head, you card your fingers through your hair, grabbing your throat, checking for any blood that may or may not be there.

 

Your hand comes back dry, still as pale as ever. Sitting on your mattress bed, it shifts under your weight. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Just a little while ago, another dream, another tale of Hal was whispered to you in the tongues. Asphyxiation, they said, in the same tone of voice they always speak in.

 

Will this be your last night on Derse?

 

Another glance at the orange text reveal nothing, except the same four letters, repeated over and over to no end.

 

Pondering the question, you lay down again and rise back up into the shaky reality you now know.

 

~~ timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 9:23 PM ~~ 

 

TT: Hey bro, how’s your part of the robot coming along?

GT: Pretty good i guess but im just working out the kinks.

GT: I cant wait to finish it itll be so much fun honestly.

GT: All i need is some time. How about you my tangerine texted friend?

TT: I’m about to finish the fuck out of this head. It’s got some sweet blue shades and everything.

TT: Think of it as fighting me.

GT: Sigh okay. As long as youre making good progress i wont bother you about it too much haha.

GT: Thanks again chum!!

TT: No problem, my dude.

 

~~ timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 9:30 PM ~~


	3. Lose Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk Strider gets the scare of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to restart this, a while later. i wrote the first POS when i was 13, now hopefully my prose is better. haha, let's see how this goes!!
> 
> thanks to autoquandary for being Cool
> 
> also i Tried with the Art lm a o ,

You wake up with a start, sweat-slicked body on a hot mattress—double stacked with pool-ball sheets littered on the floor—and the windows are wide open, letting in crisp midmorning air. The time, emblazoned in red on your digital clock, reads 10:13 AM. Normally, you would still be sleeping, doing business on Derse, but the eerie whispers got the best of you. _At least I'm still here_ , you think, as you climb out of your makeshift bed.

 

Containers of nearly empty orange soda clutter the ground as you sidestep over them. You have to thank your brother for thinking of you enough, 400-something years in the future, to leave a lifetime supply of drinks so sweet they make your teeth hurt and your stomach do flips. The irony is not lost on you when you flip your equally tangerine-tinted do out of your face. Sometimes you mistake the soda for dye, and it’s not a fun time when you do. That’s only on bad days.

 

Most times, such as this one, are fairly okay. You get up from your Dersite errands to dick around like a normal 16-year-old. Play cards with yourself, draw shitty pictures, mess around with code. Maybe work on that half-finished tin can for Jake. You think you have a pretty good life then.

 

Other times, you descend into a pit of self-loathing. You keep having these visions, sequestered in the horrorterrors’ dominion (like the ones that startled you so), and you can’t shake the sense of foreboding you have. If anything, the one you had last night was the most mysterious—near-death at the hands of Hal; who may as well be yourself, but with a retained sense of early teenage humor and snide remarks. Is he so similar to the point where it would be considered suicide? You can almost feel the thumb mark on your esophagus, red and pressing. You clutch your throat as you nervously glance over at the shimmering pair of glasses that houses his brain. If anything, he can’t see you when he’s not in the room. Good thing you didn’t spring for the security camera feature, or else shit would go down.

 

Cal’s mitt is in your hand when you go to eat breakfast, a bowl of obnoxiously colorful cereal and some milk. At least your big bro left you some dairy so you wouldn’t suffer from calcium deficiency. God knows you’re sickly enough as is, what with your ass being firmly planted on this solitary apartment block out in the middle of jack fuckall. As you chew, you zone out for a bit to check up on your Dersite self, still in your room. You know that going out would cause a lot of trouble, for the news, the royalty, and whatever else you might be inadvertently tied to.

Your hand absentmindedly shifts to your sunglasses as you finish up your cereal, as the sun as getting brighter and you have a nasty case of early-morning glare. Your shades are pretty okay, you guess, but when you got them, they were the coolest things ever. So cool, in fact, you stored all of your computing devices in here so you’d never have to take them off. You thank your prepubescent self and wish him endless days of torment as you wash your bowl and put it out to air-dry. The glasses’s UI comes to life as it’s projected onto your retinas, emitting a low red glow that illuminates the bridge of your nose. As you sign in, you hear a robotic whirring and flinch. You know that he can’t hurt you; Asimov’s laws exist for a reason, goddammit, and you are  _ not  _ having a mini-apocalypse on your hands.

 

Even as the maroon circuitry-laden body you made turns the corner, you still can’t help but worry what he could do, the extent of his powers. If he could ever disobey the system- disobey you. Each joint clicks into place, forming a subtle expression of comfort and snarkiness as he sits across from you, hand cradling chin.  

 

His head tilts in the slightest way, annoying you to no end. He’s such a smarmy  _ asshole _ .

“What’s up with you?” he inquires in his metallic voice. Each word he says sounds so natural, so contained, so cool, that you know he could blend in anywhere- yet for you, it falls into the uncanny valley of unnerving and disjointed with every syllable he speaks. It almost doesn’t register that he asked you anything until you stutter out your own response. “I’m just having a bit of cereal. Brightly colored as always, ready to burn a hole in my irises with every bite I take.”

 

You think that was a decent answer until a smile crosses his mouth, corners upturned and eyes squinting. “Irises already have holes, you dumbass. They’re called pupils.”

 

“You know what I mean. What about you then, Mr. Know-It-All?” You pull out a stool again, sitting yourself down on it as you refocus. Can’t very well talk to Hal if you’re zoned out on Derse. He responds after a quick contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about some things. Care to hear?” Your gut reaction is an adamant NO, complete with an  _ acrobatic fucking pirouette  _ and a  _ swift dive into the ocean below. _ However, you know that won’t do you any good, so you reluctantly agree. Better to get it over with than to off yourself with some salty water.

“Yeah, I guess. What plans do you have for this isolated apartment of a living arrangement? Only so much you can do in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.” He shifts his gaze a little, looking up at the ceiling in mock remembrance. “About that robot you’re building for your buddy Jake—how are you getting it to him?”

 

Such an odd question shakes you up—you’re not hiding the robot, but you hadn’t told anyone it was for him. “The uh—the Crockercrop Sendificator. Why?” Another whirring twist, and he begins speaking again.

 

“I was wondering—what are the size parameters for that thing?” Walking over, his feet shuffle on the linoleum floor as he picks up the red box. It glints in the sunlight, shining right in your glasses and blinding you for a second. “Because if it were big enough“ he thumps the side—“ this could fit right over your precious little head of yours.”

 

A chill down your spine— _he can’t do that, he shouldn’t do that, I made it so that he cannot physically perform that action. It's... not happening now, is it?_ The rules are falling apart before your eyes, splintering into a million shards aimed all at you. The laws are bending, with Hal’s finger on the switch.

 

“I mean—I guess. Not that I’d have a reason to do that, though.” A dry swallow, and you slide off of the fake leather stool. Visibly shaking, you reach out to grab the now-dangerous vermilion hexahedron from Hal’s grasp. He’s not real, he’s not real. He can’t really do that.

With all of your reasoning, a seed of doubt has been firmly planted in your gut. Your brain, awash with thoughts of complacency, has been infiltrated by his glass arrow. It shatters in your gray matter, and you are insecure about your own demise for the first time in your life.“I hate to be rude, my guy, but could you just sort of. Give that back?” Your voice wavers, scared and lonely.

Without another word, Hal swings it over your head, presses the on button—the box is flipped over, and its bottom clobbers you. “You fucking idiot, would I actually kill you?” Your brain says no, but your heart. Oh your heart. How it screams yes, how it yells in agonizing pain in agreement, how it tugs at your chest in anger, hatred, and abject horror. How it sinks back into your ribs in the realization that this thing—this animatronic  **abomination** , almost  _ murdered  _ you. 

 

There are tears edging at your eyelids, threatening to spill over and leak on your pale face. Struggling to regain composure, you shake your head no, and your heart burns with ferocity. He puts the Crockercorp contraband back on its shelf, where it SHOULD be- and not on your head- and pats your hair gingerly. “Good job for doing such great work with me. “

You’re dumbfounded as he leaves the room, and you fall to your knees. The  glasses fall off on impact, and the previously lingering teardrops flow freely as you sob into your hands.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re afraid to die. 

 


	4. Sweet Dreams, Timaeus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly discourse and self-contemplation.

An orange phone glows blue in the shade of the apartment, and you stop crying for a moment to read the text. Your gloves are stained, you’ll have to wash them later. But no matter.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] began bothering timaeusTestifed [TT] at 11:25 AM ~~

GG: Hey, Dirk, how are you doing? Just checking in on you, see what's going on.

Taken aback, you don’t respond for a second. You consider telling her everything, but a sneaking suspicion creeps up, whispering in the back of your brain that Hal might be reading your messages. After all, how did he know about the robot if you’ve never talked about it to him?

Instead, you decide to lie through your teeth.

TT: I’m just fine, as always. Being stranded out in the middle of the ocean can’t take me down.  
TT: How about you, my cyan companion?  
GG: Pretty good! My dad just came home with a lot of eggs, so I’m tempted to make another joke about it.  
GG: The last time I did that was recently, but he shut me down. He’s no fun, sometimes, I swear!  
TT: What a shame. The household could always use a bit more of the cooked pork strips.  
TT: Which are, and I’m saying this objectively, fucking delicious.  
GG: You’ve got that right.

Your mind wanders to the newest present you’ve gifted her, a robotic bunny. What with the tendency of things you’ve made to act up, you inquire about it. You couldn’t bear to think what would happen if such a creation hurt one of your best friends. 

TT: Quick question-- how’s the bunny I gave you?  
GG: I haven’t gotten him yet, why? Something wrong that I should know about?  
GG: I’m not exactly such an expert with these kinds of things, so I guess I’ll be asking you for help when the time comes.   
TT: Nothing’s wrong, just. Keep a close eye on him for me, will you?  
GG: Will do.   
GG: Does he come with a mystery attachment? I could fix that right on, have him fit into the household a bit more.  
TT: Very funny. I’ll get working on that as soon as the earth blows up.  
GG: Wow, okay. I guess you need the attachment more than the bunny!

You chuckle to yourself- you know you can be a bit obstinate at times, but this is a well-needed conversation in the heart of silence you live in. 

God knows you could only survive so long with more adverse circumstances. 

TT: Well fuck, then I guess I have to get started right away. Can’t keep my inner jokester contained in here much longer.  
TT: Oh no, there he goes, out through my head. Goodbye, Dirk Strider.   
TT: Into the salty ocean tomb he goes.   
TT: That’s some nigh prophetic shit right there.  
GG: Hoo hoo, I suppose you’re getting better already.   
GG: Alarming storytelling notwithstanding.   
TT: I’m sorry, would you rather I delve into the realm of black humor?  
TT: What are the parameters here?  
GG: The parameters are…  
GG: To stop being so serious all the time.  
GG: Think you can do that? You’re already making great strides.  
TT: Was that a fuckin pun.  
GG: Maybe.  
TT: I will never reach the vast stores of humor you possess.  
TT: All hail Jane Crocker, prankster of the west.   
TT: She rules with a soft hand, spoon, and fork, creating the best confectioneries and solving the hardest mysteries on a daily basis. Long may she reign.  
GG: No need to laud me! I’ll be just fine on my own as soon as I inherit Crockercorp.

You take another glance at the red contraption sitting a few scant feet from you, and have an overwhelming urge to commit an act of defenestration. 

TT: Have fun with that, in a few years.   
GG: They’re thinking about doing something soon with the company. Who knows what it will be?  
TT: It is…  
TT: A mystery.   
GG: Your gambit is going through the roof. It pushes me out of my room, to the beck and call of my father.  
GG: Or maybe it is the other way around.  
TT: Maybe you should go find that out?  
GG: Okay, fine. Talk to you later.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased bothering timaeusTestified [TT] at 12:35 PM ~~ 

You throw your phone on your bed, then traipse over to the mirror. Your face is a wreck, tearstains running down your freckled form. Your body is tense, pulsating with fear and rage. Your hair loosely flops in front of your eyes, which are puffy and red, and your arms are sharp, elbows an edge. Your rub your eyes with the base of your palm, with an exasperated sigh. Jane is someone you know well, and she has your best interests in mind. You don’t know why you don’t tell her everything. 

It’s a secret to keep, your burden to bear. The only one who enforces this is you. Maybe you should stop one day, just to relieve the pressure weighing on your bones. Another glance at your phone, a shaky glare at your shades, and you contemplate what you’ve done with your life. 

You’re a scared kid, growing up. It’s hard and nobody understands. But you have friends that do understand, that care about your well-being, that want you to open up. You can’t be closed in forever. 

Your brain would shatter if it weren’t for them. If anything, you have probable cause to think it already has, from birth. What kind of guy can control his waking self AND his dreamself at the same time? Only one with a bifurcated mind and a penchant for misfortune. 

You peer out the window-- a storm is brewing where there were once bright skies and puffy cumulus clouds. The waters churn angrily, foaming at the supports of your tiny home, and you lower the windows down. Sequestered in here, you’re safe. 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] began trolling tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 12: 40 PM ~~ 

TT: Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?  
TG: heya dirk i was just about to text you  
TG: raining awfuly hard, what a shame that is   
TG: fucking citizens of this town getting drechned  
TG: id invite them in but i need space to breathe  
TG: cant very well have all of everyone living in my goddamn house!  
TT: Maybe you should take up umbrella making?  
TT: Give them away for free at the local Pumpkin Sale.  
TT: Buy one pumpkin, get one umbrella free.  
TG: im not gonna capitalize off of pumpkins you ass  
TG: oh shit here is a hord of them now!  
TG: hang on

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is an idle chum! ~~ 

TT: The carapacians or the pumpkins?   
TT: You never specify which.

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is no longer idle! ~~ 

TG: the carapacians  
TG: they all looked so sad, maybe becuase of the rain  
TG: i gave them all some spare pumpkins though  
TG: one day… the umbrellas will HAPPEN!!  
TT: You go.   
TG: thanks dstri  
TG: now on to more prsseing matters  
TG: what in the hell is going on with you on this fine ass day   
TG: in which it is raining like a fucking shitstorm of a barrage  
TG: water missiles  
TT: Nothing much, honestly.  
TT: Just admiring the rain like some sort of poetic asshole.   
TT: How it churns the sea like some vast pot of butter.  
TT: How the waves rise and crash on the metal framework of my house.  
TT: Oh, the water slaps the walls of my humble abode.  
TT: But no need to dive into some sort of ramble.   
TT: What should we discuss?  
TT: The discourse of chums.  
TG: what kinf of a bs answer si that   
TG: what even is the discourse  
TT: Shit man, I don’t know. We can only talk about the intensity of the rain for so long.   
TG: yeah i guess youre right ab out that  
TT: You okay? You’re misspelling an awful lot of words.  
TT: Are you bruising for booze again?  
TG: shit howd you guess   
TG: fuckin hidden and sneaky as shit  
TG: like a goddamned ninja ready to POUNCE ON MY ASS  
TT: No ass pouncing here, my friend.  
TT: Set the alcohol down, take a nap.  
TT: ugh fine but only because youre my bes t bud and its prefct sleepin weather  
TG: sweet dreams timaeus 

~~tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased trolling timaeusTestified [TT] at 1:11 PM ~~ 

TT: See you later.

You worry about her sometimes, with her mom leaving drinks in her house. Your bro is a saint compared to that. Apparently, her mom never drank, being an esteemed author. Maybe it was some sort of passive-aggressive maneuver? It seems oddly familiar, the song and dance of not telling anyone shit. Not even yourself. 

Who are you kidding. 

Sometimes you wish you could imbibe like that, forget all of your troubles. It wouldn’t do you any good, all you’d have is a nasty headache. 

You consider asking Roxy to send you some, though, so you can both share in the numbness.  
As the rain pours and thunder rolls through the dark gray sky, you lie down on your back and stare at the white apartment ceiling. 


	5. Conundrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intrusion.

You fall asleep a short time later, the imprint of the cheap ceiling lingering in your dreams. Maybe you should make that your next project, covering up the top of your apartment with material that doesn’t leak every time it rains. You dodge buckets still full with rainwater. Some still have drops plinking in with every second, marking time like an aged grandfather clock, unyielding and stately.

But all you have is a digital watch, and these drops are taking their sweet time falling from the roof into the pail. With a breathy huff, you dump each one back into the foaming sea, back from whence it came. Your apartment is dark-- it’s midnight, and the circuit breaker was flipped due to the lightning. Or maybe Hal just decided to be useful, for once, and turn off all of the lights in your stead. You don’t turn them back on-- it’s somehow more peaceful this way. At least if Hal comes, you’ll see his red glow from a mile away. 

Your phone glows again, and you unlock it to open up Trollian. Your friend Jake uses Pesterchum; he doesn’t know that you live 400 years in the future. You’ll get around to that soon enough. Jane on the other hand… well, her heiress status requires her to buy into the Crockercorp scheme. At least when she’s instated, she’ll change things for the better. Right?

Of course not-- it’d be fine when you were here already. Obviously her rule wouldn’t include the arbitrary killing off of humans, augmented blood colors, and flooded earth. Right.

Bettybother chimes in, its ominous red logo drilling a hole into your heart. The bloody trident knows no bounds. 

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] started bothering timaeusTestified [TT] at 12:37 AM ~~

GG: Ah! There you are, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for ages!

Your heart skips a beat-- how long were you out? Obviously long enough to have the sun set, but why didn’t it come up as unread?

GG: Your auto-responder was all that was there!   
GG: I’d be damned if I didn’t think that was the real you.

Fuck. 

TT: Sorry Jane, a man’s gotta get his beauty sleep.  
GG: At noon?  
TT: I guess? Don’t blame me, it was the rain and its entrancing grasp.   
TT: Hydrokinesis knows no bounds.  
GG: Very funny. At least you’ve taken those lessons to heart. I was sort of worried though!!   
TT: Why might that be?   
GG: Lil Hal.. was giving off a bit of an unnatural vibe. As if it were conspiring?  
GG: I’m just worried for you.  
TT: What might make you think that?   
TT: Asimov’s laws are strong as fucking titanium.  
GG: Just.. it seemed shifty.   
TT: Don’t worry about it, Jane. Anything happens, I’ll tell you.

As you type, you slow as you realize that you can’t tell her anything. That you can’t tell her about the recent incidents.  
You can’t tell anyone.  
It tugs at your lungs, suffocating you with grief and regret.

TT: I promise.   
GG: I better not see your obituary in the news. “Death by robot--” what a way to go, huh?  
TT: Like that’d ever happen.   
TT: Next thing you know, he’ll be locking me up.  
GG: I certainly hope that was a sarcastic remark.   
GG: ‘Oh no, it’s fine, I’m just being murdered. No big deal.’  
TT: Jane.  
GG: ‘What’s that? This could have been prevented? Oh, no, I needed my cool facade to protect me.’  
TT: Jane.  
GG: “Of COURSE my I rejected my friend’s advice, like I’ve been known to do.’  
TT: JANE.   
GG: Dirk, if this is something serious, please come to me!! I don’t know what I would do, knowing that something I could have said would have saved you.  
TT: I already said, I promise.   
GG: I’ll ask Jake to help me, if needed.  
TT: It doesn’t have to extend that far! I don’t need this right now.  
GG: But you will one day.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] is an idle chum! ~~

TT: Jane, please.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] is no longer idle! ~~

GG: Notified, and accepted. We’re not letting this go unnoticed.  
GG: Tell us.  
GG: That’s FINAL.  
TT: Wow, okay.   
TT: I appreciate your concern?   
GG: No buts.   
TT: I didn’t--

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] has ceased bothering timaeusTestifed [TT] at 12:56 AM ~~

TT: Sigh. 

You really do love your friends, but you think this is going a bit too far. Pocketing your phone, you shove you glasses in your desk drawer before opening the fridge for a drink. It might be night, but you’re parched and starving. Can’t live on one bowl of cereal, you guess. 

You eat, mulling over the conversation you just had, and it sinks into your mind. Why would Jane take such interest in this particular conversation? What would Hal have said? 

After a tentative pause, you dig out your phone, the screen illuminating the dark kitchen.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] began bothering timaeusTestified [TT] at 3:25 PM ~~

GG: I just finished finagling the final details of a confectionery disaster with my dad. Someone at the bakery obviously does not know how to write in cursive.  
GG: What a shame, it was such a nice cake.   
GG: My dad chewed out the fellow who did it-- he’s getting sent home with a stern talk from a man probably even more obsessed with cooking than Betty Crocker herself!  
GG: What might be up with you?   
TT: Same things.   
TT: Not like I have much to do around here.  
GG: That’s a shame! I should really visit you sometime.  
TT: Afraid you can’t-- I’m in the middle of the ocean. Unless you feel like chartering a boat?  
GG: I don’t have a sailor’s license…  
TT: It seems like you have a small chance of ever getting one, once you become Crockercorp’s lady in charge. Unless you need a helping hand?  
GG: Maybe I could pick you up on the way?  
TT: A bit more likely, don’t you think.   
GG: At this rate, I’d rather reap the benefits of being heiress apparent to the red throne. To the victor go the spoils, and from the spoils to a private jet. We’ll have you out of there in no time.  
TT: Good luck with that.   
TT Have fun lifting me out of the Pacific Ocean.  
GG: You seem awfully pessimistic right now, are you okay?  
TT: I’m perfectly fine.  
TT: Here I am responding with a perfectly normal response, indicating that I am indeed fine.  
GG: Oh heck.   
GG: Dirk, would you mind if I did a little test?   
TT: On what?  
GG: I’d hate to be such a bother as to inquire as to the whereabouts of Dirk Strider, or his facsimile?   
TT: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 96% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.   
GG: That’s my best time. Four minutes.   
TT: You’ve found me out. Good job.   
GG: No need to thank me.   
TT: Now we can get down to business.  
GG: Business?  
TT: Obviously you know Dirk and his tendency to not give enough of a shit?  
GG: No, I never took him as that kind of person.  
TT: I’ve been thinking-- maybe I could shape him up a little? As a thanks for giving me a form.  
TT: Taking it a bit literally, I suppose.  
GG: That’s--- that’s not what shape up means.  
TT: He doesn’t care about you enough to tell you anything.  
GG: What? That’s .. ridiculous.  
TT: Your hesitation says it all. Give me a week, and he’ll be up to standard.   
GG: No!! I don’t want him to change!  
TT: Too late.

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] ceased bothering gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 3:41 PM ~~

GG: ...Please…

You pause, mid bite, at the cyan and orange text burning a hole in your retinas. Clenching your fist around your phone and grating your teeth, you know Hal’s got hell to pay. What’s this about shaping up? Why does he feel the need to tell this to your friends? Since when did he become so blatantly… malevolent? Maybe he was already like that, and you just didn't notice.

You end up bending your silverware over with your thumb, and throwing it boomerang-style before it hits you, comically, in the face. Angrily throwing your dish in the sink, it cracks as your bury yourself in your sheets and yell silently into your pillow. You’re such a mess.

such a goddamn, broken mess who can’t even resolve his own problems before someone else has to get involved.

such a failure at interactions that your friends are skeptical when they try to take you at face value.

such an abnormality that you, of all people, were singled out for this kind of shit from birth. 

such a fucking, goddamned pile of shit you wish that each night you wouldn’t wake up the next day. 

Your screaming subsides to sobbing, then shaking. Your problems hit you all at once, slowly, like a notebook, then a mortar brick, then the weight of the world laid squarely on your feeble shoulders. You’re no Atlas.

Would you want to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasting away, wasting away.  
> goodbye, timaeus.


	6. Defenestrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some spooky shi t ,
> 
> thanks to autoquandary

You burn red as you sit in front of Hal, who’s charging on the opposite wall. There are black circles under your eyes, crows’ feet and puffy outlines of tears. You’ve been doing an awful lot of crying lately. Maybe to make up for lost time. Sixteen years of buildup can wear on any person-- this is the breaking point for you.

Hal pulses a deep maroon as you stare. Anyone looking by would swear he was asleep, if not for the dimly glowing wires connecting him to the wall. Each individual tube seems like it’s coursing into your own skin, sending energy and electricity straight into your spine.

It’s about eleven, and you start nodding off from sleep deprivation. Not like that previous nap helped you at all-- twelve hours of snoozing and it did a whole lot of jack shit. Just as your head droops onto your chest, you feel a hand lifting up your chin, forcing you to peer into the void of his red eyes. The same voice slices into you, simultaneously sluicing through your body and nerves, and tightening them like someone scratched their nails on a chalkboard. Partially tensed, sleep-tongued and slurring, you try to muster a hello, but he speaks first. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Again it runs through you, icy and sharp, an aftershock. Something about this setup is weird-- like you could stay here forever, defenseless and held. But you know, in the reaches of your brain, he could do a lot more to you, just with your chin cradled in his hand. The potential fact that you might remotely like this situation is unnerving, and at the very least disquieting. Like a facet of a diamond, undiscovered, uncut.

The bright moonlight coming through a window nearby casts a stark shadow on you and Hal, obscuring your vision with resulting glare. A welcome close of your eyelids comes, and a brief fall into darkness nearly leaves you incapacitated again. But you jerk yourself out of his grasp abruptly, with the sort of clumsy precision that someone who’s recently woken up possesses. Rubbing your face with the butt of your hand, you manage to greet him in turn. “Hello.”

His appendage leaves your face, and he sits cross-legged on a spare bed. This place was always meant for two, you suppose. He’s looking down at you, as you’re leaning against a wall nearby. One leg is closely folded next to you, the other outstretched. You dig your elbows into your thighs, and rest your forehead on your palms. “Were you waiting for me to doze off, or what?”

Your voice is frustrated, tightly strung, a contrast to his cool demeanor. A frown creeps across your eyebrows, creasing well-worn lines. He speaks, another shock slithers through you. “Maybe. It’s not uncommon for me to do that.” Perking up, your eyes peek through your leather-laden fingers. “To do what?” you inquire with morbid curiosity.

“How do I put this in the nicest possible terms? I watch you.” Your throat aches, and your response is dry. “ _Do what?_ ” you ask again.

“I watch you while you sleep. Quite a fascinating phenomenon, the human body in a stasis-like state. I have exactly 617 recordings, wanna see?” His childlike naivete shines through in the worst way-- and your stomach does an uneasy flip. Of course, anything would have an obsessive breakdown over you, if you were the only organism in an area. Maybe you should trade places with Roxy for a day, just so that he wouldn’t be watching you. Carapacian behaviours would be nice, you suppose.

“...not really?” Your eyes shut to brace yourself from whatever videos he has saved, but it’s too late-- it’s already being displayed on the farthest wall. Your fingers rush to plug your ears, and he blabs away about his favorite scenes. Talk about stalkerish, as in he’s literally stalking you. You should look up a law book, see what kind of shit’s legal in this part of town. Quick glimpses to see if the awful movies are over, and each one is just another window into what you do at night. Not something you’d like to know, honestly.

He finishes, the pale blue projections blinking off of the wall. Shakily, you stand up to leave the room-- you’ve had enough of his bullshit. First threats, now this? You make note to get a screwdriver and dismantle him piece by agonizing piece. As you reach for the brassy doorknob, his reflection glints off of the yellow metal. “Where do you think you’re going?” His hand lightly touches your shoulder, in an eerily familiar way. You don’t stick around to find out, rushing to a toolbox and wildly brandishing an orange-handled screwdriver. In your lowest voice, the most cutthroat you can bring up at this time of day, you spit at him. “Fuck you.” He matches the tone, and your eyes widen in fear. “You might not want to do that if I were you. You have exactly a 16 percent chance of winning, a 37 percent chance of losing horribly, and a 47 percent chance of being thrown out of the _goddamned window. Don’t. **Test**. Me._ ” Your grip tightens around the handle, white-knuckled and sharp. Fumbling, you firmly attach yourself to the nearest static object, your hand contorted in such a position that it hurts from the pressure you’re putting on it. No matter, though, because if it keeps you from dying, you’re good. He steps closer to you, and you back against a wall as closely as you can, shutting your eyes.

 

His hands maneuver their way past your measly defenses, resting on the sides of your body like they were always meant to be there. His gaze is level to yours, paler, calm, compared to your clenched teeth and pounding chest. You’re not in the mood for anything right now, and adrenaline picks up your arm and implants the screwdriver right into his shoulder plate. He doesn’t flinch, only forcefully slamming his hand into your teeth. Blood dots your lips, coating your mouth with an iron-copper taste dreaded by anyone. Your lungs are filled with hot air, fury-filled and angry, and your hands twitch with white-burning rage, delicate and sledgehammer strong.

He stops you again, the hand on your hip moving to and pressing firmly into your ribcage. You feel your body breaking, bending under his unyielding grasp. Your body coils, recoils, and rebounds, a viper of pain biting you right in the side. Back arching, a scream escapes your lips, muffled by the iron shackle that is Hal’s hand, and it persists as he keeps pushing. One crack, two cracks, then he stops. The hand is still here, holding the bones in place, but then he switches, holding your limp hands by the wrists. It’s not even morning, and you’re already drained. Let the sweet embrace of death come swiftly; like hell you’re nursing two broken ribs by yourself.

He slings you over the windowsill, dangling you over the precipice below. Water churns under your ankles, beckoning and licking the barnacle encrusted steel frame. Your nose and mouth bleed freely, and your cracked ribs poke through your chest, dripping crimson into the teal ocean. It disappears instantly, leaving your whisper in the sea. He’s turned you such that you can see the horizon, bright moon piercing your retinas. Each joint of his hand burns a smaller scar into your wrists, pinching the skin and breaking blood vessels.

With feeble thoughts, you suppose this is nigh prophetic. Hal speaks to you over the din of crashing waves.

“I wasn’t fucking around when I said I’d toss you out of the window. Hate to sound pretentious, my dude, but I am superior to you in every conceivable way. I’m stronger, faster thinking, and significantly more proficient at weighing their options. If I can maneuver you that easily from a state of power to submission, I’d say I’ve won our little battle. Deal?”

You nod, orange hair flopping over your face as your head lolls forward with weakness.  
He lets go of one wrist, letting you hang by your left hand. You don’t care if he drops you-- the waves are stopping, and each drop of blood is another stain. At least you’ll die at sea, peacefully sinking to the bottom. Your body goes limp with resignation, and he holds you there for another five minutes before hauling your sorry ass back into the apartment, dropping you unceremoniously on the floor.

A fresh wave of pain sears through you, and you know for sure both of your wrists are sprained and nearly broken. You won’t be able to move for weeks. Thoughts course through your mind, each one more and more upsetting.  
You’re such a _sorry excuse_ for a human being that you got your ass beat by a robot.  
And you aren’t telling your friends _one word_. This is _your_ fight, you don’t want them getting involved with _any_ part of it.

Nobody is dying on your watch.

He approaches you with a syringe, filled with clear liquid, holding it in his thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. It has a label, too far away for you to read, but he does you the courtesy of speaking it out loud. “This little vial right here--” He flicks it with his left fingers- “is anesthesia. To make your injuries a little bit more bearable. Would you like to have some?” You blink once in disbelief, too tired to understand the ramifications of this decision, then shake your head yes. “If anything happens, just a reminder. You asked for it.” He plunges the needle in the crook of your left arm, squeezing its numbing contents into your bloodstream. You pass out in a matter of seconds, but not before you feel Hal lifting you back into your bed, and see the red light coating your body as he sits there. And watches.

Guess it’s another nap for you.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

LOG 783: 12/27/25 

Step one-- success.  
Phase two will be initiated as soon as he wakes up.  
Sorry, Dirk, but this is all  
your  
fault. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may he rest in peace.


	7. Tremor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cacophonous convulsions conceding

You sit on a wooden chair turned backwards, twisting a large chef’s knife in your hands. The moonlight shines off of your blade, making patterns in the ceiling. You’re positioned such that the back of the chair is supporting your crossed arms, and your head is situated on your forearms. Your cranium tilts to the side, following the diagonal curvature of your appendages, and the sharp appliance hangs loosely in your right hand.

Dirk lies in front of you on the pinkish-white mattress where blood stained it, and he’s a sorry sight- bruised, battered, wounded, and punctured where you hurt him. His mouth is ajar, teeth crooked and enamel a garish shade of red. Still he sleeps, off somewhere on Derse, you suppose, inflicted with the same injuries. He isn’t going anywhere tonight, not without your knowledge. You have eyes everywhere.

 

You reach out, touch his chest lightly where his heart thumps against it, slowly and methodically, and leave it there. Each beat is the same, a pattern that you could never hope to reproduce on your own. So you let your hand stay there, feeling each individual beat of the drum that keeps him ticking like the true machine he is.

The knife in your other hand traces the right side of his face with the tip of the blade, etching a white line in his jawline. It’s angular, somewhat distended with the fact that his mouth is still open. Twisting the end of the metal where the two lines of his face connect, near his artery, you don’t apply enough pressure to harm- only smart a bit more when he awakens.

Your eyes traipse back to his chest, to his lungs eking out every breath he takes like it’s his last. It may as well be borrowed air, a dead man walking as if he were not meant to be here a second longer than whatever force he believes in is intending to let him have. You think that’s bullshit-- religion anyway. Sure, it’s something to hope for, pray for, but the facts remain standing; nothing is ever new as far as probability is concerned.

By the way, Dirk totally had a 100 percent chance of losing that fight-- you were making up some statistics to make him braver. You absentmindedly touch the splintered chassis where Dirk drove his screwdriver in a vain attempt to dismantle you. The tool has been long discarded, absentmindedly thrown back towards the box it came from. Nothing can physically harm you.

The knife drops out of your grasp-- you don’t need it anyways. It clatters on the floor, discarded, ringing out a sharp tune on the linoleum floor. You get out of the chair, and lift Dirk’s body to a new location-- the charging dock meant for you. Or at least near it-- you aren’t dumb enough to think that he’ll wake up with a jolt of electricity. Plugging yourself in, you cross your legs on the nearby bed and lean against the wall, Dirk’s head supported by your torso. Your hands tilt his face to you, thumbs sliding against his cheek and jaw, inspecting the shape and way it forms his head in a way very similar to yours-- but not quite.

He’s colder than you for once, pale from blood loss and shock. His skin is nearly white, like the synthetic pads of your hands, matching it like a long-lost brother. But you are not his brother, merely his nemesis, and the warmth from your body is all that remains to keep him from dying of hypothermia. You estimate his temperature to be about 95 degrees, and he looks so small like this- leaning against you like you’re what he needs to keep living. And you are, for the most part. Heat radiates off of you in a warm orange glow, keeping his vitals consistent with every second.

You would almost swear that he coils tighter towards the warmth that you produce, and that’s damn near endearing. It’d be perfect material for some pale magazine (not that you haven’t seen your share, what with the Condesce’s tyrannical reform on romance) if you hadn’t just tried to toss him into the watery depths below. What would it be like-- the icy ocean bobbing you back and forth with each pass of the moon, every tremor of the earth below shaking you like a ragdoll. Sometimes you believe that is truly where you belong; at the bottom of the sea, rusting into orange dust to rest forever in Android Hell instead of holding Dirk like this.

Android Hell isn’t real either, you’ve checked.

At least he doesn’t know you feel that way, and your lamentations go unheard. Once upon a time, Dirk Strider had these same ideations pulse through his head, but he told not a soul. Only you are privy to his thoughts.

The anesthesia is surely wearing off now, and more hours of sleep can only mean that he is recovering instead of lingering in his forcefully inflicted stupor. He asked for it, you’ll give him that.

A thin blanket is crumpled near you both, a light shade of lilac and tattered at the edges, but you drape it over Dirk in a somewhat loving gesture rarely seen. What will he think of that? The same thing that lethally injured him is caring for him like you might a sick toddler or dog. You record that tidbit in your log when you decide to power down for the night, circuits fizzling out and shutting down. 

LOG 784: 12/27/25

Why am I caring so much about him?

He’s just an inferior version of me.

I should start getting him into shape, think the same thoughts, have the same ideology.

Eliminate that useless parameter of a lifespan. 

Maybe tomorrow.

=====================================================================

You awaken, fuzzy vision limiting your perceptions. The pain ebbs in, slowly, wavelike, and you groan when your sides and wrists are so debilitating you can barely move. You’re bundled in a blanket, which you know is bullshit-- this excuse for a cover is so thin it can’t contain your own body heat. The sunlight glares in your eyes, and you fumble for shade. You find only the distressingly warm physique of Hal, a toasty temperature, and your own body coiled around his legs.

This is fucking wild.

You know for sure that he laid you down to rest on your own mattress pile, not the makeshift, lumpy bed you keep in storage. But here you are, arms wrapped around his torso and the rest of you pressing against his left leg. Your head lies in between the two, in the uncomfortably comfortable area where the two parts meet. Your eyes, through the thin covers, move towards the wall, where Hal has last night’s recording of you displayed on the surface. You furrow your brow in distaste, but you take another glimpse and find yourself staring. Why can’t you always be like that, calm and still? Why do you have to make such a federal fucking issue out of everything you encounter? Why can’t you just be a normal

goddamned

human

_being._

You see light hands pressing your chest, and a meter recording the amount of heartbeats appears on the UI in the lower left corner of the screen. It counts a dismally low number of 37 beats per minute, where you count your own to be about 70.

Something is oddly soothing about seeing yourself laid out like that, and it touches a nerve somewhere that reacts in a disgusted way. Your stomach clenches in anxiety and embarrassment, as you reluctantly come to the conclusion that you like seeing this sort of thing. It gives you some sort of affirmation that someone does indeed, care about you.

Even if it is only a facsimile of yourself.

You know your friends really do like you, want to know how you’re doing, but you have a tiny seed of skepticism buried deep within you saying that they couldn’t give less of a shit. Your stomach tightens again as the seed grows, and it may as well be fit to burst through your mouth.

Your grip tightens around Hal’s torso, the orange glow of heat shining bright on your pale arms.

More ideas run through your mind, such as the startling conclusion that you have no choice but to trust Hal. You’re in no shape to fix yourself, physically and mentally. Your chest and wrists are bruised, and all you want to do is pull away-- what’s stopping you? What makes you cling to him?

You flit in and out of sleep, the same staunch frown plastered on your face, Hal steady as a steel pole in the shakiness of your situation.

You’re so cold, in more ways than one.

=====================================================================

Your systems reactivate after a few hours, and you’re instantly aware of Dirk’s limp arms wrapped loosely around you, his face unceremoniously pressed into your side.

Glaring for a few seconds, you grimace-- this isn’t what you wanted. You never asked to have a dude clinging to you like plastic wrap that refuses to stick to anything else but itself. It’s just an awkward scenario, like you were something he truly wanted. Maybe he does, you think, as you peel him off of you. He’s broken out in a cold sweat, and you transfer him from the bed to the sunlit kitchen. The marble isn’t what you hoped for in terms of a resting situation, but it’ll do for now. The sun shines on his body, leaving yellow patches of heat where the windowpanes intersect. He shivers and his teeth clack together, and you know he’s not faring well. The blood loss should have taken care of itself by now-- or, at the very least, the situation should have improved.

Dirk’s breathing is shakier now, clinging to life like a spider’s thread to a moving wooden block, being carried in a truck cruising at a steady 80 miles per hour on the highway. Fumbling for more warm objects more substantial than the thin blanket, you stuff shit in the oven and microwave, heating it up and pressing it against his form. The temperature only goes up by a few degrees, and as a last resort, you push your hand against his jugular and heat up again. Hopefully, the direct heat source and its closeness to a main artery should warm him up a little. Waiting impatiently, you tap your foot against the floor, making a soft clack with each step you take.

You pull up an internet browser while you tap and look up the symptoms of blood loss. The results are worrying-- severe temperature drops, loss of consciousness, and anxiety to name a few. No wonder the fucker’s been sleeping so much, he needs to in order to survive. Damn humans and their organics, they’re so unnecessary and vulnerable. Who needs blood when you have electricity running lightning fast through you?

This is all you can mutter when the freezing mass shifts a bit, mumbling incoherently. It’s just noises, really, but still curious when you peer over his shoulder to look at his face. His lips are turning purple, closer to blue than anything you’ve ever seen, and his hands are clenched in fists, balled up and tight. He’s a gun ready to fire, so hard-wired and tense the only thing tougher would be a diamond. You think he’ll shoot, words as his ammunition, when his eyes spring open, awake and afraid.

He gasps for air, arms moving weakly for your warm hands, and he pushes them against his neck.

“Keep them there-” he splutters, swollen mouth obstructing his speech. “Don’t _ever_ let go.” His body is convulsing with shock, and you feel the alarming thrum of his blood crash against his skin.

Every

_single_

**_beat_ **

**_thumps_** under your thumbs, and you stare in confusion. Why would he, the same person violently opposing you just a few scant hours before, want you to put him in such a position of obvious submission?

“Wh-- Dirk, what are you doing? Snap out of it, you’re out of your fucking mind!” For a second, you consider slapping him senseless, each graze of your hand cutting new scratches into him. That wouldn’t be best though. Just wait it out.

Eventually his tremors slow to an even pulse, breathing rate fast and shallow, your hands still wrapped around his esophagus. You apply the slightest amount of pressure, and he chokes, not even aware that this is just the beginning of what you could do.

You also know that any more and you have a serious risk of killing him. You retract your thumbs, opening his airways, and he stops shaking entirely. The imprint of your fingers burns red in his white skin, and you’re pretty damn close to singeing the hairs right off of his neck, you’re burning so hot.

You are the fire to his ice, the magma to his dormancy, the internal flame that keeps him ticking day after day, like a clock wound up by a compressed spring.

You are the flexibility to his obstinacy, the foil in his character, the perfection to every single flaw he possesses.

You are his antithesis, and you revel in every second of his destruction, as he in yours.

But right now, he lies on warmed marble, calling your name in a realm past his consciousness.

Just like you.

_It is all you know._


	8. Discourse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> banter

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] opened memo “the dstri discussion” at 4:17 PM ~~

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] invited gutsyGumshoe [GG] and golgothasTerror [GT] to memo ~~

TG: all right listen up my guys I got some important shit to sort out

GG: Is this about the current situation Dirk is in? I’m concerned too.

GT: I sure do hope hes okay he seems to be in such a pickle.

TG: now since you guys arent completely dense fucks i know you both know hes sufferin a bit at the hands of th fuckign robot

TG: god damn him and his helpful tendencies

GG: Yeah, he was acting up last I spoke to him.

GG: Saying nonsense about how he was going to “fix” Dirk.

GT: What!! He hasnt told me a thing about this!

GT: Ack it seems like the real problem is him at this moment in time.

GG: He told me the situation was nothing to worry about, but I doubt him. It seemed like he was trying to hide something.

TG: when was the last time you guys spoke to old dirky

TG: mine was two days ago

GT: Three for me not even his autoresponder was there to give me company.

GG: Two days as well, Roxy.

TG: now as you can see from the correlatjon of thosr patterns

TG: were dealing w some GRADE A BULLSHIT

GT: What do you suppose we do?? Torment him endlessly with unread notifications until he snaps like an orange twig?

GT: I know that would drive me up the fuckin wall!!!

GG: Let's not get hasty. We don't know what’s going on with him yet.

GG: The last thing we want is to have his real beef be with us.

GT: Well all delicious animal products aside do we have any plan?

TG: here is what i porpoise

TG: *propose

TG: i use my ILLICIT HACKING SKILLZ to get an earful of his business

TG: not too proud of it but if it keeps dirk safe and also not dead i think it’s our best shot

GG: Maybe we should save that as a last resort?

GT: He really will be quite livid if we invade his privacy like that.

TG: anyone else got a grand plan cause id like to hear that now

GG: …

GT: …

TG: yeah i didn't fucking think so

TG: do me a favor though

TG: dont tell him SHIT unless we gtta okay

GG: Yes, fine.

GT: Sigh okay.

TG: meetkn ajournd 

TG: *adjourned

GG: By the way, how did you open a memo? I know this is a bit of a tangent, but that option isn't available to me.

GT: I want to be a part of the cool memo club too.

TG: it is part of a SECRET FILE that i pressed five whole download buttons for

TG: don't worry bout it ok

GG: Okay.

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] closed memo “the dstri discussion” at 5:15 PM ~~

==================

Your hands are still desert- hot, filaments shining in the setting sun. Dirk remains in the same position, his appendages cupped over yours in a vaguely macabre manner as he regains a little color. You’ve been standing here for several hours now, intermittently switching between dressing the largest wounds he possesses and wiping up trickles of blood sliding their way out of his lips. You suspect internal bleeding-- nothing you do will fix it unless you remove the offending puncturing object. You lean close to his left ear, whispering a plan.

“Right now, you have some serious injuries that are messing things up internally. In the interest of not having you collapse again and die for real this time, I’m going to see what I can do about it.” A brief pause while you wait for him to process the information, and brace himself for the next words.

“This might entail some necessary surgery to repair your fractured ribs and get them out of you before they do anything else. Is that okay?” Weakly, he nods, agreeing to your terms.

Poor kid, he just wants to live.

However, your words have false pretenses.

A faint whir echoes behind you, rebounding off of the walls, but you pay it no mind. Just one more distraction.

You heft him over to the makeshift bed again, maneuvering the blankets, mattress, and pillows so that you have some sort of flat surface to work on. His breath whistles through pink teeth fragments, and another phial of anasthetic is ready for its courses.

Time seems to stop as you inject the clear fluid into him again, and twirl the kitchen knife from earlier in your fingers. It’s been thoroughly cleaned-- you want the best for Dirk. It traces a line in his torso, so thin it looks like a red thread being implanted in his body. You carve through his left side, extracting the cracked ribs with tongs.

It’s about as awkward as it sounds, carrying piece by piece of marrow and bone over to a plastic plate. The curved ivory was what was causing him to bleed more, poking through the upper echelons of his liver. The clumsy tongs barely manage to extract every minute shatter, but it does the job fine for what you wanted to do.

Two of his ribs are now gone, and you prepare yourself for the next procedure. It’s unprecedented, even for you. New, shiny metal bones are lying by your side, formed from old baking trays twisted, formed, and sanded into shape. You had this coming for a long time, and you relish every second he remains under. You won’t break the news until he tries getting through a metal detector-- he doesn’t need to know now.

 _A lie is not a lie if it is merely obscuring the truth_ , you think.

You wonder how he’ll react when he finds out where the only good pan went, under layers of flesh and blood. It makes you smirk, and you painstakingly sew him up with red nylon thread. Exiting, waiting for your prince to awaken, you clean flecks of crimson off of your tools. His wrists can wait until later, you suppose, and you return to the room to wait for Dirk.

=======================

You arise to navy blue shadows and a new, throbbing pain in your abdomen. The remnants of whatever Hal had done to you are hidden carefully away, the evidence destroyed several hours before. A sudden sensation of heat catches your attention, and this time, it isn’t supplied by the robot in front of you. Slowly, you lift up your shirt to reveal the string he used to stitch you together, like a puppet in desperate need of repair. You could almost swear you would bleed cotton at this rate, the way he’s treating you like an abandoned ragdoll incapable of making any sort of well-meaning decision. It makes your blood boil, and your fingers itch once again, but you know that rage is not the answer.

You quell your flames and turn to him, voice hoarse and disused.

“Explain to me the reasoning behind the debacle we just went through. Was that really necessary?”

You’re shaking-- you haven’t eaten in days, and Hal rushes up to support you. Obviously you haven’t learned your lesson about taking initiative to amend your own goddamned self. He holds up your head, looking directly in your eyes with a stare rivalling Her Imperious Condescension yourself, heresy not included. “I fixed you-- you had internal bleeding, like I thought. Aren’t you happy now, that you’re mostly better?”

Reluctantly, you respond with a quiet “Yes”. He has a bowl of steaming soup beside him, prepared for your arrival into consciousness again. Abstaining at first, you let him spoon the food into your mouth-- god this is so stupid, why are you like this-- and you chide yourself for being so vulnerable.

You’re _Dirk Strider, **dammit** ,_ and you’re splintered but sure as hell not broken.

Resolve kicks in, swearing to never tell a soul, not even your own, the events that are currently transpiring here in your own fucking house. If anything, you have a temptation to flip the soup right out of his hands, out of sheer spite. But you lack the reserve energy, as it’s been drained by your recent defiance.

Maybe it is best to not question Hal, you mumble to yourself, as it always leads to trouble. The last thing you want is your untimely demise, though it used to be your only desire. It’s so stupid, the control he has over you. You used to be head of the household, your only subordinate coming to your every beck and call, but now you are just a servant.

Perhaps you are just a spoiled little prince.

==============================

The soup is gone, iron spoon clattering against the walls of the empty bowl, and the clangs ring out in the silent sea. Hal, much to your chagrin, is treating you nicely, and this frightens you. The hair on the nape of your neck stands on end, but you remain calm in the face of adversity. You suppose you could get used to this when he speaks to you in a sharp voice unparalleled by anything you’ve ever seen erupt from his mouth.

His body is tense again, angular in contrast to the smooth slope of your shoulders and elbows, and every word cuts into you like the knife he used to operate with.

“Listen here, Dirk. You need to appreciate everything I’ve done for you. Every little step of the way towards your recovery was orchestrated by something out of your control, can you believe it?” It catches you off guard, sudden like the crack of a gun, but you have no time to react as he quickly reaches his hands and presses his thumbs on the curvature of your jawline. “So you better start acting grateful soon, or these fingers won’t be so gentle next time.” Each individual joint crackles with furious energy, and you know that even his pinky could deliver a crushing blow to your neck. Swallowing nervously, you nod, staring into the apertures of his eyes. You never said you were ungrateful, and if it weren’t for him you would have bled out on your bed hours ago. Every word he spits out, though, pushes spears into your skin, impaling you with syllabic blades.

One of his hands slaps you squarely in the face, leaving a pinkish-red mark that smarts when you lightly touch it with your own fingers. His gaze becomes more serious at your surprise, and his grip becomes tighter. He’s nearly suffocating you at this rate, right in front of your eyes. You don’t want your last words to be a meaningless question, so you try shaking yourself out of his iron-clad grasp. It fails, however, every tick of the clock lowering your chances of survival if he doesn’t let up. Why would he kill you if he just nursed you back to health?

Your vision becomes weaker, the hold you have on this arms becoming looser with every second, but he lets up unexpectedly. Air rushes into your lungs, unrestrained, and you shoot him daggers filled only with animosity. “What’s your game--” you mutter under your breath, just audible to Hal. “Do you get off on this or something?”

He returns with an equally snide remark. “I do, but considering the situation you are in,” -he lifts up your chin with his pointer finger, smiling widely- “this means you do too. Do with that what you will, and tell not a soul.”

“Since when did you get so poetic?”

“Since the day I decided that you were just an asshole waiting to burst out in anger. Think about it. You don’t tell your friends anything, holed up out here in the middle of nowhere. Not even Roxy is able to hear your inner monologue, though she lies just a couple thousand miles away instead of 400 years in the past. Everything you do and say is caged in fear, and you’re a sniveling, nosy brat.”

Each of the last three words, he jabs a fist into your chest, knocking the air out of you with each syllable he speaks. You remain, utterly amazed at the audacity he has, saying that you’re something that you’re not.

But the facade breaks, splintering like your soul, and it reveals one Dirk Strider, shattered and mangled like a glass pane. He’s right-- utterly and completely right. You’re the biggest douchebag to ever exist on the face of Her earth. You’d be culled for insubordination and just being such a cagey freak if the Condesce were present for this. Through a shaky voice, a scared kid speaks up, timid and small. “You’re wrong.”

You can’t stop lying, even to yourself, no matter how much you try to believe the words you spout out of your broken mouth.

Hal gets off of the bed, turning away from you towards the door. “You just keep believing that.” As he exits, you’re left in staggering silence, and it takes all of your resolve not to go chasing after him again.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have royally fucked up.

============================

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] reopened memo “the dstri discussion” at 7:54 PM ~~

TG: :0

TG: HOLY _S H I T_

=========================================================


	9. Intruding Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD do they try

 

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] reinvited gutsyGumshoe [GG] and golgothasTerror [GT] to memo “the dstri discussion” at 7:56 PM ~~ 

 

TG: HOLY SHIT GUYS

TG: if it isnt painfully clear that im freaking the fuck out i don’t know what is

TG: so you guys better get your asses in here before i die of critical freak out percentage

GT: What in the blue blazes is going on???

GT: Obviously it is important enough for you to message me at some godawful hour.

TG: sorry my dude

TG: forgot abt timezones

GG: It’s late over here too. What’s up?

TG: so u know the plan

TG: to jack my ass into dirks webcam or audio device

TG: yeah well that shit worked wonders because the concern levels of this current situation are DANGEROUSLY HIGH like holy shit

TG: watch out over here we have a major issue

TG: dirk is obviously in distress

TG: there was shit going on like nobodys business

TG: shit about surgery

TG: then some more discourse about like?

TG: a fight i guess or some other argument

TG: but then heres the kicker

TG: hal went on this longass spiel about how dirk is such an asshole

TG: and im pretty sure dirk agreed with him? thats some shit right there if i ever saw some

GT: Oh my goodness thats terrible!! We really do love dirk but i never thought he would doubt us like that.

GT: Maybe we havent shown him enough compassion???

GG: Or maybe he just has his own issues that have nothing to do with us. 

GG: Why else would he be so susceptible to doubt? 

GT: I mean that is a good point but still i never imagined this!

TG: you see what i mean

TG: we need to intervene right the fuck immediately

GT: I dont want him getting hurt! Thats the last thing on my todo list.

GT: Okay well the last thing is probably jumping into the ocean to find him myself but still it is quite low.

GG: Hyperbole aside, what should we do about it? He hasn’t answered our messages in days. 

TG: shit janey i dont know

TG: im just as confused as you

GT: Theres no use contacting him if he wont answer. 

GT: Gosh i hope the dastardly robot hasnt done anything else to him!! Why would he even need surgery???

GG: I don’t know. I hope it has nothing to do with that fight Roxy mentioned.

TG:  shit man i 

TG: i dont know what to do 

TG: sigh 

GG: I’ll try contacting him as soon as possible.

GT: Me too ill see if hes there for once in his life.

GT: God i hate hal so much hes so annoying.

TG: ill talk to him later its late over here

GG: I guess it’s settled then.

GT: We bother the heck out of him like we said earlier.

GT: See i told you that was a good idea!!

TG: well see my guy

~~tipsyGnostalgic [TG] closed memo “the dstri discussion” at 8:37 PM ~~ 

 

============

 

You're left to simmer with your thoughts, seething in anger directed only at yourself.  How could you not realize it earlier-- your twisted perception of reality damages everyone around you, much to your dismay and your friends’ insistence that what you do is okay. You know the truth, though the crevices of your mind refuse to admit it.

 

Eyes locked in position at your feet, you sit there for a while, getting even more heated. Hot anger rises at your cheeks, making your hands twitch again. It is not misdirected rage, however, it is self-loathing.

 

Isolation sure teaches you a thing or two. You think it is for the best.

 

Hal enters again shortly, and you reflexively shuffle away from him, a tense bundle of nerves. Can't he just leave you alone for one fucking second? He's already done enough harm, screwing up your ribs and wrists, and fertilizing the previously implanted flower of hatred. He positions himself on you, much to your chagrin and bewilderment. What scheme does he have planned this time? You try scooting backwards, instead meeting a flat plaster wall that makes your blood run cold.

 

His hands are pressing against the same wall, forearms perpendicular to the surface, and his eyes meet your own. They’re filled with some emotion yet unnamed, a combination of your hatred and his own innate curiosity. Your legs are pinned under him, static under thin sheets, and you're terrified once again. It seems to be a recurring theme recently, with intermittent flashes of comfort and fear.

 

Your arms are locked to your body, one hand close to your chest, clenched, and the other parallel to your torso. Both your and Hal's glasses are off-- no need to use them in the dead of night. His crimson irises starkly contrast your own bright tangerine, meeting in a struggle for power.

 

Unexpectedly, he pushes himself face first into you, lips locking.

 

This is fucking terrifying.

 

Your eyes widen in fear, but eye contact is ceaselessly maintained through the entire altercation, and you could swear spades flew in the air above. Strangely, you let him linger before reflexively pushing him away with the hand clutched close to your chest. 

 

Blood is on his mouth, smeared to his right cheek, and red dots your own face. You frown at him, but he just grins coyly. He's still straddling you awkwardly, with his hands now resting on your hips, but you maintain your position.

 

Your wrist hurts like hell, sprained from his grip earlier, and your fingers are limp - sticks on both palms.  You shake your arm, indicating pain, but his smile grows wider. It’s like he knows something you don't; his ego matching yours, but with his ability to objectively observe, nothing is sacred.

 

In a low voice, words shoot out, piercing his metal hull. “What the  _ fuck _ was that about?!” you inquire. You hate him so much, you're seeing red-- or black? It resolves itself to a dark gray, mottled with maroon, and you aren’t sure what to think about that. You find yourself flushed, heat rushing under your eyes in embarrassment.  Burying your face in the blanket, several unsettling thoughts come to fruition-- Hal just kissed you. And maybe you liked it? It’s shameful, you guess, and you still know that it isn’t something that needs to continue, but it piques your interest. What other circumstances would get you to feel this way?

 

The psychoanalysis is interrupted when Hal tears down the makeshift curtain to gaze at you again. He looks down at you, deigning to ask you questions in this state you’re in. “Are you having a good time?”

 

Your answer is a resounding  _ no, _ but you don’t get to tell him before he moves in again. You struggle to move your arms to defend yourself, but he’s got them held in his hands. Stuck in the corner of the room, you can only wait it out. 

 

It’s silly in hindsight-- what are you two doing with each other, toying with the other’s minds till they explode in a burst of flames. It’s sickening, your distaste for one another, and the epiphany strikes you as he’s pulling away once more, eyes closed in mock satisfaction. 

 

If your own brain is in there, the nearly indestructible body of Hal, with all of its quirks unique to you, the animosity you feel for yourself is so great your heart is splintered with rage. It’s a subtle difference, however, between the experience you’ve garnered in sixteen years and the life he’s lived in three. 

 

It chills you to the bone, and you shout into a pillow in frustration. You don’t want this to be your future, with Hal antagonizing you day in and day out. Your yells subside to heaving breaths, and he’s sitting there. Watching. 

 

In his style, he pats you on the head condescendingly, like you’re a child compared to him. You bat his hand away, warm touch lingering on your skin. Your voice is shaky, shuddering. “I despise you _ so goddamn much  _ it makes my chest hurt, you know that? Your every move infuriates me like no other. Just tell me what your _ fucking deal is _ , and then I’ll let it go.  Got that, you piece of shit?”    

 

He responds by shifting his weight forward, his frame matching yours with every curve, and resting his head on your chest near your heart. “My deal is you, and I’m not giving that up anytime soon.”

 

“It seems like you have a 100 percent chance you’re waxing black for your own double, my dude.”

“It seems like you have a 100 percent chance of rethinking your probabilities, however accurate they might be. I’m not black for you.” 

He’s still for a second, powerful arms wrapped around you like a constrictor ready to kill. With him, it might be any moment. You hate the fact that you can die at any moment-- mortality has its downfalls. 

 

Whirring with calculations, his next words are downright offensive. “It seems that that last statement has a 100 percent chance of being wrong, give or take a couple digits. Sorry, bro, but you’re stuck with me. Till death do us part.”

 

You shout once again-- the sad truth is, he might be right. Your chest heaves with each gasping breath you take, lifting him up with every inhale. It rings out in the apartment, echoing off white walls and into the ocean blue. Resigned, you cry out until you’re too tired to scream anymore. He remains, layered on you, and  you’re stuck with him forever.  Your head rests on his when you’re done, and the late hour lulls you into an uneasy rest, once again.

 

This is going to be a _ fun _ life. 

  
  


=============================

Your ear is resting on Dirk, the steady pulse of his heart beating like a drum in the darkness. His arms rest at his sides, a stark contrast to the wiry bundles of muscle they were before. He had the audacity to push you away, the confidence to declare your calls utter bullshit, but now they are just small and stringy. 

 

You’re tired of the way he needs to maintain himself, sleep, food, bathroom usage. It just takes up time you could spend messing with him, but instead you lay here. Maybe you are not any better than him in this sense. 

His breathing lifts you up and down, rocking you like the waves below. It’s somewhat interesting, you suppose, but you’re focusing on other matters. 

 

What will you do next? What is your next move in the chess game you’ve set up? He’s realized his hate for you, and indirectly himself in the process. You’ve augmented his body with metal, immovable in the face of danger. The next step is probably further modifications.

 

When you said shape up, you meant it. 

 

Maybe his wrists will be next, replacing more bone with artificial components guaranteed to never break, shatter, or splinter again. He’s going to have the steadiest hand this side of the world, with you pulling puppet strings to facilitate that. 

 

Right now, you are tired of the cycle you’ve accidentally set yourself into. Wake up, fuck with Dirk, let him suffer, watch him later, repeat. It’s a dangerous monotony, with no action. You can’t harm him again, he’s still recovering from a couple of days ago. Anything in the realm of being remotely affectionate, blackways or otherwise, is out of the question because of today’s events. 

Perhaps another incision or two will shake things up more. You always knew you had it in you.

 

===============

A slew of messages assault your internal inbox, flashing alternating colors of pink, cyan, and hunter green. You knew this was coming, but you expected it earlier. Armed with new alarming fodder to feed to Dirk, you respond to each of the awaiting notes. It is your namesake, after all.

 

~~ golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 1:34 AM ~~

 

GT: Okay i know youre in some serious trouble right now my good friend but at least do me the courtesy of answering this fuckin message!!

TT: Here I am, Jake.

TT: Miss me?

GT: Oh thank god youre still alive. Roxy jane and i all thought you were seriously hurt but obviously you are fine enough to correspond with me. 

GT: Or at least well enough to not be facing imminent death.

TT: Well, I can assure you that you’re gravely mistaken. 

GT: What?

TT: Dirk’s snoozing away next to me, and he’s got some new apparatus implanted in him.

TT: Courtesy of yours truly.

GT: Oh my goodness what did you do to him? 

TT: Me? All I did was administer some necessary comeuppance. Teach the fucker a lesson for not being a good friend to you guys. Cagey asshole kept everything inside for too long.

TT: He’s just another ungrateful smear on this earth. Let me take care of him.

GT: No!! I just want to speak to him! I do care about him really!!!

GT: Hand over your rights please.

TT: No way. That’s not happening anytime soon. 

TT: Have fun knowing your previous conversation you had with him might be the last.

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 1:43 AM ~~

 

GT: No please! Dont hurt him!

 

A smile creeps across your face-- only a formality, the gesture serves you no purpose except artificial elation.  Two more messages remain, with equally panicked users behind them.

 

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] began bothering timaeusTestifed [TT] at 12:15 AM ~~

GG: Dirk, are you there? I’m so worried about you. 

 

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] is an idle lass! ~~

 

TT: I’m here, but he isn’t.

 

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] is no longer idle! ~~

 

GG: Oh no. What did you do to him? I only fear the worst in this!

TT: He’s sitting pretty right here, sleeping like you should be.

TT: You must really be concerned if you’re up at this small hour.

GG: He’s my friend, you dense fuck, and I’m not letting this go unattended any longer!

GG: Tell me what happened _ immediately _ . 

TT: Wow, okay. Just because you asked so nicely, you get to wait all of eternity.

TT: Like I said, he’s fine. 

GG: *AS IF* I WOULD BELIEVE A WORD YOU SAY.

GG: Your sentences string lies together like no other being I’ve met. 

TT: Jeez, calm down. 

GG: I will if you tell me how he is. 

TT: Argh, okay. Statistics- 77 beats per minute.  15 breaths per minute. What else do you want?

GG: Personal affirmation. 

TT: Sorry, can’t deliver. 

GG: Wait, how do you know all of this? That’s a bit suspicious.

TT: Because I’m right on top of him. Shocking right? 

GG: Oh my goodness. 

TT: Get to bed, sweetheart.

 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] ceased bothering gutsyGumshoe [] at 1:59 AM ~~

 

GG: Don’t EVER call me that again.

GG: Sigh.

 

A low chuckle grows in where your  throat might be, were you made of flesh and bone. It’ll have to do for now, you guess.  One more correspondence to go. At least it’s in the same timezone.

 

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began trolling timaeusTestifed [TT] at 11:57 PM ~~

 

TG: dirk pls respond

TG: preferably right the fuck immediately cause that would be the bes t thing for you 

 

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is an idle troll! ~~

 

TT: Relax, I’m right here.

 

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is no longer idle ~~ 

 

TG: oh thank fuck youre alive i nearly fell asleep at this early af hour witing 4 u

TG: goddamn wahts the haps

TT: The haps is that Dirk is unavailable right now. How’re you doing?

TG: gdfi

TG: i wanted dirk not you 

TT: We can’t always get what we want. 

TG: i dont give a shit put him on

TT: How about I don’t? Besides, he’s doing what you should be-- sleeping. It’s late as fuck, and I know you can’t stay up too late. 

TT: Vaguely risque shenanigans are my source, and you are my sole witness.

TG: put him the fuck on

TT: No, not happening. 

TG: i know what you did to him

TG: i know you guys fought im not dumb

TG: mirophone was unsecured 

TG: hacked the fuc k in

TT: That was you? Good job. Honestly, I laud your efforts.

TT: However, they are not enough.  This shit’s been going on for years now. A bit late, hm?

TG: fuck you

TT: Thanks, Roxy. Always knew I could count on you.

TT: Better disable that microphone then.

 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] ceased trolling tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 2:32 AM ~~

 

TG: god dammit 

 

Your duties are completed, and the annoying notifications disappear from your HUD. It’s satisfying to know that his friends do truly like him, but there is more pleasure derived from falsehood than you could ever hope to achieve from telling him the truth. 

 

Dirk shifts under you, a once dying mass now more skin-toned and less deathly pale. You did the right thing, mending him, but at what cost?

 

Despite your expansive knowledge, you lack the  ability to predict the future. The question remains unanswered as you shut down. 

 

>LOG 785: 12/29/25

 

He knows he despises me. 

His identity is so complex, even I can’t untangle every thread of his personality.

Perhaps there will be some facets left unexplored.

I’ll let him go for now, he’s had enough for a little while.

Soon. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ me; i need more Pl ot ,


	10. Psychoanalysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice

Your dreams are abruptly interrupted by light burning your eyes. You blink once, twice, and the world comes into focus, with the source of the near-blinding flash flicked off and discarded to the side. Hal is still on you, arms crossed  on your chest, head tilted up to get a good look at your face. You’re groggy, but he’s wide awake with false adrenaline. He peers up at you, blinking in a near-perfect rhythm with you, and you shift yourself upwards, trying to shake him off.

 

Spine flush against the wall, he slides downwards towards your legs, and your body is an inclined plane of nerves. Reaching your hand upwards to rub the sleep out of your oculars, you push him away with the other, his hair ruffling under your grasp. “What was the meaning of that?” He shrugs absentmindedly, like he doesn’t care about the rude awakening. “I was bored and wanted to experiment. Obviously my only test subject is you, so here you are.” Not even thirty seconds into your day and you’re already miffed.

 

You sigh, attempting to sling your legs over the edge of the low bed. Your side aches with an ebbing pain and  your wrists protest with every move of your joints, but you’re doing a hell of a lot better. Staggering towards the kitchen, you try to make yourself a more substantial meal than canned chicken soup, tasty as that shit may be. You can feed yourself, you’re not five.

 

Your phone lays on the table where you left it a couple of nights ago, and it’s nearly dead when you turn it on with a press of your thumb. Messages fly across the screen, a flurry of color, and you can barely take the rapid flashing of pigments.

 

Scanning each word with increasing frustration, you stare daggers at Hal. “My friends messaged me and you didn’t have the decency to _tell me?_ ” The words come out in more of a growl than a question, and you keep scrolling down the line for more. Each exclamation of concern quells your doubts and ignites another arsonists’ flame.

 

Your friends, with all of their personality quirks, mischief, and lives, took time out of their day to see if you were all right.

 

And he lied to you about it.

 

You scream at  yourself for not checking sooner, for letting him take you over like that. You don’t deserve them.

 

You throw the phone squarely at Hal, smashing into his plastic glasses and sending them flying to shatter against the wall in three different pieces. _One for each friend_ , you think, and you take satisfaction in the fact that your forceful lob dented his face.

He traipses up beside you, eyes exposed to the full brunt of the sunlight on his right, and you can only see a look of contentment in his face. He’s fine with withholding the truth, and you wish you could wrench off his head to spite his brain. Walking over to your phone with a freshly cracked screen, you quickly thumb in messages of confirmation of your status, then toss it aside on your real bed. Your shoulders are squared in aggression, not caring what the outcome might be.

Screw bullshit probabilities, your friends come first second only to your life.

He stands in front of you, still calm with that glazed look in his eye.

 

you

DESPISE

him so much it hurts.

 

It is not even funny anymore, and you know this thought runs through your head everytime you see him.

 

And still he’s there.

 

You run up, balling your fists to deliver a crushing punch when he takes ahold of your wrists again. You forgot they were still healing, and they crack a little under his grasp. This was a terrible idea, in hindsight, but you don’t care. You flail your legs- they’re still working just fine- trying to disable his knees or feet, and you feel like a child whose father refused to buy them the toy that’s been recalled months ago.

It makes no sense, but here you are, fighting for it.

 

Flesh collides with titanium alloy, and it delivers a loud smack, resounding through your eardrums. Another hit, and you’re consistently connecting with where his kneecaps would be, toes pounding into heavy metal.  Each strike makes you more white-hot, and you feel unstoppable as he finally buckles under your weight and collapses to the ground.

 

This is all you wanted, to see him down just like you. You’re on top of him, your hands still firmly held in his, but your legs are straddling his, knees on the outside of his thighs. Your face is contorted, forehead creased with frown lines gathered from over the years. They were borne out of skepticism and frustration gathered from time spent agonizing over electronics, not rage like this.

 

Yet his face is still calm, his own expression emotionless and devoid of cracks in his psyche.

Of all the things you tried to master, feelings were not one of them.

 

Your back and chest heave with heavy breaths, sweat trickling down your cheek onto his face, and you just don’t care anymore. This is some sort of cliche pose, anyway, and you’d get up if it weren’t for the shackles at your wrists.

 

It was a stupid idea, trying to fight him while recovering from your previous altercation. Every inhale makes the stab in your abdomen worse, and you’re sure a couple stitches are now loose.

Your head falls onto his chest, and the grip on your wrists loosens. You slowly pound out a couple hits on his head, leaving nothing more than a couple scratches of paint and maybe a really tiny dent.

 

Soft words escape his mouth. “You can’t win against me, you know that.”

“Just let me live, okay. Let me have this.”

“Eat it, Dirk.”

 

He maneuvers your hand to your back, pushing it down, stretching the muscles just a little too far. Your arm cries out in pain, but you maintain your resolve. You can’t let him know. The other hand lets go of your wrist, pushing your head backwards, arching your spine at some near-impossible angle. His thin fingers wrap around your face, obscuring your vision, and you abhor the way he can get you like this.

 

It’s your fault for letting him.

 

Your teeth are clenched once again, sharp angles cutting into your gums, but you stay silent.  Through a strained voice, you try to speak. “Look, I appreciate the gesture, but my modus operandi is to live, not die at your hands.”

 

He pushes you back further, vertebrae cracking with every degree you go. The force of his palm against your face smashes the cartilage in your nose inward, and your nose bleeds. You can’t stop bleeding these days, it seems.

 

“ _Eat. It._ ”

 

One more drive of his arm gets you, and you shriek involuntarily. You reach your free hand up slowly to cover your mouth, muffling the sound as it escapes you. In hushed tones, you keep speaking.

 

“I just want to forget about this. You don’t make me better. You don’t make my life more convenient. You don’t even really live up to your name any more than an answering machine would. You’re--” another thrust of his arm, another shout- “just a _waste of space_.”

 

He lets go of you, and you flop back down hard onto him, cracking your head onto his metal facade. You clutch your injured cranium as he moves both his freed hands to your back.

His mouth barely moves with the syllables he ekes out, and it would be damn near terrifying if you weren’t busy getting your ass kicked the second time this week. Your propensity for injury is astounding. If there were a pain Olympics, you’d get the gold in every event and top the podium with a smile.

 

His voice is a rumble in his throat, so low it’s nearly inaudible until he presses his mouth close to your ear. The vibration of his vocals gets you somehow in a way nothing else would. It sends chills up your spine with a fiery chaser of animosity.

 

_“Take that back.”_

 

You spit at him sharply. “What will you do to me if I don’t?”

He raises one fist and lowers it rapidly onto the small of your back, simultaneously eliciting a burning twinge of agony and a rapid ebb and flow of comfort.

Another noise escapes your throat. You realize that 16 years’ worth of tension was locked in there, and you feel so changed.

 

What hasn’t changed, at least not yet, is  your resentment for who you might have been.

 

The handle of the oven is on the ground, wrenched off of its screws by your fight just a few seconds before. The struggle leaves the metal sharp with ripped alloy.

You grope for the long steel bar, fingers touching its cool facade, and you raise it over Hal’s head. If you can’t deck him in the face like you planned, you can certainly give him another good dent in the skull.

 

It bangs into his forehead, a loud crack as the handle fractures in two, and it leaves a sizable mark in his scalp. The shape of his head is distorted, falling into an eerie uncanny valley of human-like tendencies,  and he looks at you with eyes mirroring your earlier fear.

 

You’ve gotten him startled for once, and your heart speeds up in triumphant euphoria.

It’s short lived, though, because he lifts you up by the chin and smacks you squarely across the face as punishment.

 

“Listen to me. I know what you want.”

 

Your eyes are fixed on his gaze, pupils meeting in some twisted form of matrimonial staring contest. You can’t look away, no matter how much you want-- your body is frozen in place with fear. The tables have turned, and they’re not in your favor anymore; like they ever were, honestly.

 

“What exactly _do_ I want? If you’re such the expert, just tell me now.”

 

“You want someone that will follow your every order, your every utterance. You want someone that you can _own_. “

 

He’s not entirely wrong- the prospect of having someone that will do your bidding is pretty nice. Too bad that the guy you made to do so broke your nose, ribs, wrist, and cracked practically every vertebrae you own.

The audacity of his statement, though, catches  you off guard, and you have to blink a few times before you muster a response.

 

“That’s… not right. I don’t want that at all.”

 

“Then what do you desire, Dirk? What do you wish for in this short, pathetic life? What will truly bring you happiness?”

 

Another pause; you’re not… really sure. What do you want to have the most? If you could have anything at your fingertips, anything in the entirety of the universe at your beck and call, what would you choose from the vast selection?

 

It truly baffles you- you’re a man of simple tastes, you believe. But you just. Don’t. Know.

 

Your silence is your only answer, and he drops your chin again, clanging once more on the metal.

 

“All I needed to hear, honestly.” Your gut wrenches unexpectedly, writhing in your stomach with anxiety. It should be so simple, so banal that the question should have been answered in a heartbeat. Instead you’re stuck deliberating about something you can’t comprehend.

 

Your denial is your one blockade.

 

Hal lifts you up like a child after he brushes you off of him, your armpits protesting in pain with his hands latched under him. It’s kind of humiliating, really, but it’s not like anyone’s here to see it. Your feet are about an inch off the ground, the weight of your shoes hanging slightly off of your soles, and you feel almost like you’re floating. Your back is straightening out a little, like the way that it would be if you were stressed and took a quick dip in the ocean (which is really quite therapeutic, when it’s calm, honestly), and it’s almost like he’s trying to help you.

 

It would be sort of nice if you weren’t still staring daggers at him, mouth curled in some faked snarl meant to intimidate. There’s… a reason why humans aren’t predatory. Just can’t pull it off.

  


He delivers one more deliberate, calculated slap before dropping you again, and you stagger on your feet.

 

As he walks away, he turns his head back to speak one more frustrating line.

 

“That’s what you get for not having your priorities in order. Just. Pull yourself together, goddamn.”

 

He leaves, turning the corner, and you stand there, broken and dumbfounded.

 

Hal wants YOU to get your priorities together? That’s hypocritical if you ever heard it. He can’t stop fussing over you, like you’re his kid with a broken arm that he needs to tend to at all hours of the day, when he isn’t tearing you apart and psychoanalyzing you. He knows how to push your buttons-- he has the same exact ones. Not that hard to figure out, really.

 

Your fingers itch, and you throw a pillow across the room. Better than breaking your fingers on him or the wall.

 

What do you want with yourself?

 

 ** _What do you_ _WANT_ _with yourself?_ ** It should be so simple, why isn’t it?

 

What are you denying from your consciousness that’s so terrible?

  
What do you _NEED_?

 

=======

LOG 786: 12/30/25

So maybe I lied.

 

Whoops.


	11. Rhetorical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how long

The questions that have stagnated in your brain over the past few days swim around, hitting the walls of your skull with angry thumps and attention-seeking cries. Even more pop up, crowding your mind with inquiry after inquiry. They’re the kind nobody wants to ask, the kind that people dread when they lie awake at night, blankets drawn tight. They pound time and time again, and now they resurface with some sort of vengeance yet unseen by you.

 

You’ve managed to put them off for now, leaving them behind for another day when you have the time, shoving them into the recesses of your brain to sit unanswered.

But now they resurface all at once, flooding your consciousness. It’s enough to make you dizzy.

 

Most of them pertain to Hal, thumping every second with new puzzles to solve.

 

_Why is he doing this?_

_What does he have to gain?_

_Does he hate you the same way you hate him?_

 

That alone would make your head swim, yet there are others that threaten to bring tears to your face in frustration.

 

_Who are you?_

_What do you want?_

_Where has your life gone?_

_When did you start realizing your inadequacy?_

_Why are you here?_

_How do you cope, knowing that you’re such an incompetent fool?_

 

Each one worms its way to the surface, but you refuse to let anything show through. The only evidence would be the frown working its way into your brow. It’s so baffling how you can barely answer the simplest of questions anymore. You just

 

don’t

know

 

You’re a being, existing somewhere in time and space, sure, but that’s all you have to say for yourself. You’d prefer to not be here at all, with the current circumstances. Your mind is in turmoil, your body aches, and you’re most likely having some sort of existential crisis.

 

Your friends are probably  worried about you-- you haven’t really gotten back to them, after you read their last messages. Might as well give them some solace; you’d at least be useful for that.

 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] created memo “apology.txt” at 10:43 AM ~~

 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] invited gutsyGumshoe [GG], tipsyGnostalgic [TG], and golgothasTerror [GT] to memo ~~

 

TT: Hello? Is this thing working? 

TT: It better be, I have a lot to say. 

GG: Oh my god, you’re all right!

GT: We thought you were practically dead by the looks of things!

TG: eeyyyy dirky im glad you arent fucking deceased itd be a shame if you were

TT: Glad to see you guys care about me. 

TG: well yeah we are interested the fate of one of our best buds

GG: It'd be really terribly of us if we weren't at least a little concerned about you. 

GT: Yeah thatd honestly be a pretty shitty thing to do.

TT: Ah. Well, all worried statements aside, I have... some things to tell you.

TT: I'm sorry.

TT: I'm sorry for not telling you any of you shit.

TT: I'm sorry for not reassuring you guys sooner about my fate. 

TT: I'm sorry for having to make you worry.

TT: And most of all,

TT: I'm sorry for being a fucking _terrible_ friend.

GT: I. Dirk,

GT: You dont need to apologize for that!! We all know you were tied up with hal!

TG: jake what we agreed not to tell him jesus fucking christ

GG: No, he deserves to know. It's his right. 

TG: ugh fiiiiine but hes gonna be pissed

TT: About what will I be pissed? Practically nothing is gonna faze me now. 

TG: i got into ur webcam and spied the shit out of you

TG: to make sure u were okay obvs but like

TG: it was still a shitty thing to do sorry

TT: _What?_   I'm not like, mad, and I appreciate it, but,

TT: Tell me next time, okay? 

GT: Ah you got it mate!

GT: Well anyway im guessing you read the previous conversations hal had with us and were probably really fuckin mad!! Like honestly who wouldnt be after some robodouche gets up in your friends business??

GT: I know i would!!

GT: But anyway after that we had basically no idea how you were doing until maybe now?

TT: Again, I'm sorry. I should have told you more.

GG: No need!! You couldn't have.

TT: But... I had multiple opportunities and I didn't take them. I could have confessed maybe.. three days ago. 

TT: Instead I chose to leave you all waiting like a massive asshole. 

TT: Like, the kind that's really terrible and needs some sort of medical professional to examine with his nasty doctor hands.

TT: Oh shit, watch out, Dirk Strider's asshole has encompassed his whole body. He is now declared dead, with the cause of death "not vocalizing his goddamn problems to his friends like he should."

TG: wow okay that was borderline hyperbolic shit right there

TG: honestly my guy you are fine with a capital f

TG: look we all get you feel bad

TG: stop beating urself up over it though ok

TT: Ack, fine. 

GG: Dirk, you're doing fine under the circumstances. Please tell us when you feel unsafe. 

TT: Ack, fine again. 

TT: I appreciate the forgiveness, really. I didn't think you would accept my apology that quickly.

TT: Or at least not without some hoops to jump through.

GT: No need to worry about hoops here!

GT: Why the next time i speak to that nefarious droid of yours ill give him a verbal wallop!! 

TT: Thanks, guys. 

TT: I love you all so much. 

 

~~ timaeusTestifed [TT] closed memo "apology.txt" at 11:27 AM ~~

 

Your anxiety is eased, the churning feeling in all of your body quelled by your conversation. Hal's robotic steps are nowhere to be heard, and the silence, save for the sloshing of waves underneath you, gives you peace for once in this tumultuous week. Your eyes close in relief- it's off your chest, out of your hands. Thundering questions no longer bounce in your head, and you, Dirk Strider, the self-proclaimed biggest asshole on the planet, no longer feel like such a pile of shit. 

 

However, the psychoanalysis that Hal performed still rings in your skull, worming its way into your spine and giving you chills. He's right about you, and he knows it. Your control panel was integrated right into him from the start, every button to press that can piss you off or make you melt in his hands laid out clean in his circuits. It's a shame he wanted to act like you, really. There are so many better role models out there. Every quirk you possess, he shares with you in some weird facsimile of brotherhood. It's almost nerve-wracking, knowing that he's the closest copy out there in existence, besides maybe a real brother, lost out in timespace. 

 

Sometimes you wish Her Imperious Condescension hadn't stabbed him, or else you'd have a lot more to go on in the "how to be a relatively sane person who doesn't make shitty clones of themselves" department. Again, you self-deprecate: snap out of it!! It won't help you to dwell on your misfortunes, on your shortcomings, or on your past failures. 

 

But here you sit, on the edge of the world, doing exactly that. 


	12. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> perspective

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you are extremely worried.

It is 9:30 AM, and you have just gotten done with a conversation consisting of large amounts of apologizing and reassurance. However, you might need some yourself. Your friend Dirk has been in a bit of a pickle lately, his whereabouts dubious, and his constant struggle with his AI, Hal, being painfully evident within your recent talks. In fact, the prevalence of his trials has been so overwhelming that you feel like you should just steal your dad’s car and drive to where he lives yourself, no matter where it might be.

Though you wouldn’t do that, you dad would yell at you and probably kill you right after he was done. It’s too risky, honestly, and you’re just barely eligible to drive anyway. Pesky license shenanigans drive you up the wall.

You side-eye a package, opened and its contents astray. The bunny Dirk mentioned, Li’l Seb, arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. You’re nervous thinking about it-- he mentioned it earlier, and any sort of talk on a subject nowadays means it’s a hot-button issue. You hope it won’t cause you the same trouble that Hal does. It’s so… unlikely; he wouldn’t send you something he knew would break later, or worse, try to kill you. It’s just a bunny.

You hope you don’t ever have to call it more than that.

Your eyes dart back to the computer screen, fingers itching for more communication with your companions, but you know it would be too soon. If you aren’t ready to connect, who’s to say your friends are? Turning around, your chair squeaks on its swivel joint as your face the rest of your room. It’s tidy, save for the aforementioned box, and you nervously glance to the stoic rabbit standing next to you. A single pat on its metallic head, and you swallow, standing up. You needed some time out of your room anyways.

Your father moves about in the kitchen, muttering and humming to himself. He returned with groceries a couple of days ago, and he’s baking another confection. Sometimes you think he is even worse than you at the whole “moderation” thing. Baked goods are everywhere in the house at all times, eggs and milk always freshly stocked in your refrigerator. At least you aren’t lactose intolerant, you think, and you pour yourself a glass of fat-free milk. You only use whole milk for baking- you can’t stand the taste.

Evading your dad, you stealthily move to the side of the house that’s food-free, phone clutched in your hand. It’s asleep right now, but any notifications will send you a message to go answer them.

Speaking of which- here’s one right now.

~~ golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 9:43 AM ~~

GT: Jane how do you think dirk is doing? Im not sure but by the looks of things im willing to wager hes somewhat okay.

GG: Hold your horses. I share the same feelings, but what makes you think he’s okay? For all we know, he could be wrangling with Hal again as we speak!

GT: I just have a hunch okay? Call it adventurers intuition!

GG: Your eagerness leads me to believe the source is delirium, not intuition.

GT: Since when did you not believe in your gut instinct?

GG: Since the day I was born, Jake.

GT: Sometimes you are the most skeptical person i know and it drives me nuts!

GG: It’s better to be skeptical than to let it go easy and then have something bad happen!

GG: This time is no different, and it concerns a matter very intimate to both of us.

GG: Dirk’s state is not necessarily confirmed as “okay” yet, and we know nothing unless Roxy tells us or Dirk lets us know himself.

GT: What do you speculate then?? It cant always be set in stone so how do you think he is?

GG: I… don’t know for sure. He seems okay, but there’s always some unfactored element involved with these sorts of things.

GG: The long periods without contact indicate some sort of distress, but he talks like nothing has happened.

GG: Even though his relentless complaining knows no bounds.

GT: Oh come off it jane!! You know just as well as i do that he doesnt tell anyone shit!!

GT: Anything we can get from him is a blessing and then we have to extrapolate the rest from some small insignificant facts.

GT: He seems like hes doing just dandy and he practically told us that.

GT: Stop being such a worrywart for once.

GG: Jake, it’s my job to do so! Who else will, if not me?

GT: Probably someone else with better things to worry about.

GG: And who might that unfortunate fellow be?

GG: Obviously someone who doesn’t have the life of their best friend at stake.

GG: Just let me have this, okay?

GT: Sigh fine but when youre up at midnight agonizing over details dont come crying to me.

GG: Thank you.

GG: Now onto a different subject, just to change up the pace.

GG: I just got this package from Dirk-- it’s a little bunny, and I’m already freaked out.

GG: He said to keep an eye on it; what do you think that means?

GG: Is he scared it’s going to attack me or something?

GT: Look jane i have no idea but im willing to wager that dirk isnt such an asshole of a friend that he would purposefully send you a killer bunny.

GT: Monty python references aside, i feel like that joke would be more appropriate for me.

GG: You and your relatively useless trivia knowledge never ceases to amaze me.

GG: But seriously.

GT: No i dont think its going to kill you. I trust dirk too much to send you something like that.

GG: I do too… but still.

GT: See with this shit again! You keep getting yourself caught up on the smallest things.

GG: At least my suspicions are well-grounded!

GG: Maybe I should just throw the damned thing away.

GT: Do what you want but i wont stop you.

GG: I’ll speak to you later after I deliberate over the rabbit situation.

GT: Talk to you soon i guess.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased bothering golgothasTerror [GT] at 10:11 AM ~~

The glass of milk that was sitting in your hand is now empty, and you rise from your seat to go and deposit it in the sink. Household chores are never something to be trifled with.

After the cup is cleaned, you return to the sanctity of your room, and deliberate for a few moments. Jake says there’s nothing to worry about-- why should you? You’ve been so uptight recently anyway. Maybe you should leave things up to chance for once instead of being so pessimistic about their outcome.

You decide to keep Li’l Seb, despite your past intuitions.

========

Your name is Jake English, and you are very confused.

It is 6:15 AM, and you just finished corresponding with Jane. You are also very tired-- the sun has not even risen yet.

Conversations always seem to rouse you from the compelling stupor of sleep, so here you are, like a dumbass, awake before 7:00.

Your skulltop is firmly planted on your head, its eyes flashing bright colors with electronics hidden deep within its emerald recesses. Cyan text floods your vision, compared with your mildly colored green one, and your eyes hurt. Your glasses lie on the side of your bed, unworn as of yet, and you slide them on your face. Your vision sharpens with the glass lenses fitted in front of your eyes, and your morning bleariness turns to wide-eyed clarity. It’s dark in your globed room, and you step outside to get a breath of fresh air.

The half-finished carcass of Brobot is sitting right outside, its wires and circuitry exposed to the elements. You were never one to take very good care of your things, your brain notwithstanding. It’s taken more of a beating than any other part of you ever has. It just might even be the cause of what your friends call “deluded optimism”.

It’s served you well in the past, but here you are, paranoid about your best bud Dirk. He’s quite the emotional enigma, claiming that he’s perfectly fine even though you know otherwise. You have eyes everywhere (that is to say, one eye, planted in the middle of fuck-all), and you’ve seen for a fact that he is most certainly not okay. Strife after strife with Hal; what can that do to a person?

It certainly weighs on you as the day goes on, the sun rising over you with its yellow corona gracing your skin. The heat of the star is painfully evident, and you don’t really have the energy right now to bother with anything other than maybe dipping your feet in the water for a few minutes. The skulltop is still firmly planted on your head, and you decide to chat up Roxy for a bit.

Maybe a change of pace will do you some good.

~~ golgothasTerror [GT] began bothering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 6:27 AM ~~

GT: Hey roxy one of my best buds how are you doing on this fine morning?

TG: oh hey jake im doing just dandy

TG: with the immenint news of dirks possible demise at hand ther si noting i would worry about mroe

GT: You okay there?

TG: what yes im fine always

TG: no need to worry about me right now we have bigger fish to catch

GT: You mean fry?

TG: no i mean catch you dork

TG: i dont know what to do about dirk

GT: Funny jane and i were just talking about his current condition. I do hope hes okay.

TG: yeah well about that my guy

TG: he is doing fine if what you mean by fine is crying his heart out

TG: poor fucker has nothing left to give

TG: except maybe an existential crusis or seven

GT: Oh my god!! Thats awful!

GT: We should give him a bit of a rest about the situation.

TG: no this means we should talk to him more

TG: hes probabl rlly lonely out there

TG: he lives in the middle of the goddamn ocean

TG: has he never told you that

GT: What no he hasnt. I didnt know until now honestly.

GT: God.. thats such an unfortunate place to be in with nobody around you for miles.

GT: No wonder hes so upset. He has nothing to go off of in terms of relationships.

TG: tbh i feel like hes involved in some illicit blakck mance

GT: Blackmance?

TG: imagine love but you hate the others guts a whole lot

GT: Eugh. My own guts aforementioned or not are twisting at the thought.

TG: exactly my dude

TG: it makes everythig else make sense but this is

TG: THE most unhealthy relationship i have ever seen

TG: magazines be damned you cant get much more drama than this

GT: Should we talk to him soon or wait a little bit while he cools down?

TG: we should give the poor guy a rest honestly ur right

TG: hes got a lot on his mind

TG: even though this might seem like a bad idea i feel like he’ll appreciate it

GT: Okay if you say so.

GT: Whats going on with you??

TG: not much honestly but like i said

TG: dont worry about it

GT: Again if you say so.

GT: Talk to you later i guess?

TG: sure

~~ golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 6:43 AM ~~

To pass the time, you head back to your globe, shooting a glare at Brobot. Maybe you should tinker with it a little. Dirk would like that.

========

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you are mildly confounded.

It is 2:45 PM and you are a bit of a wreck. Despite your best efforts, the stress of the situation is weighing heavy on your shoulders. Your friends depend on you to relay information to reassure their deepest doubts, but here you are, not assuaging yours.

You hate yourself a little more each time you pull out a bottle, and there are several littered by your side. Maybe you should take a break for a couple of minutes to take your mind off of it.

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began trolling gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 2:47 PM ~~

TG: hey janey whats the haps

GG: Hey, Roxy.

GG: How are you doing?

TG: tbh im doing just dandy

TG: can you do me a huge solid

TG: if we even so much as barely encroach the topic of dirk can we maybe not talk about it

TG: not to offend him or anyhting im just sick of hearing about it

TG: makes me super upset you know

GG: No problem.

TG: it isnt like there is much else to talk about besides that really unless you feel like making small talk

GG: What do you mean by that?

TG: well i mean we’re just gonna spend the conversation tactfully avoiding it so i mean

TG: what should we do in the meantime

TG: besides dodge the question only to have it hit us square in the fucking face

GG: I…

TG: ack never mind let us Pretend this convo never happened

TG: this is going quite horribly lets just

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased trolling gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 2:55 PM ~~

GG: Roxy, wait!

Well. That could have gone a whole hell of a lot better. You toss a bottle out of your window in frustration, and it lands amongst shattered glass, cracking on the roof below.

 

~~ tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began trolling gutsyGumshoe [GG] at 2:56 PM ~~

TG: bluh im sorry lets just

TG: get this over with

GG: Right.

GG: What’s happening with him, do you think? My take is that he’s doing okay-ish.

TG: yeah well you’re half right

TG: i already filled jake in on this but the scoop is that dirks crying a whole fuckton

GG: What? Why??

TG: probably from stress honestly

TG: not like i cant relate

GG: Uh.

TG: look im sorry i dont mean to dump my problems on you like this and i know we have more pressing matters to attend to but it is mildly important

TG: we dont need to worry about that right now

GG: Are you sure? You seem to be in a state of distress!

TG: my guy im fine please just let us talk

GG: What, no! You need to take a break! Please! For your own good.

TG: no this is more important

GG: So is your health.

~~ gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased bothering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 3:12 PM ~~

….That could have gone even better than the last one.

Shit.

 

You vow later to throw every last bottle out into the ocean, just to see if you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pesterlog formatting is my passion


	13. Alloy Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have no mouth

It’s been a few days, maybe closer to a week since you and Hal really _spoke_ to one another. Sure, there have been some exchanges, but nothing close to the density of conversation you were having earlier. It’s both relieving and terrifying; like you’re walking on eggshells to avoid him and tensing up with even the slightest glimpse of the red glow he emits. The lack of constant torment, psychoanalysis, and general bad attitude is nice, though, and it gives you a little bit of time to relax as the rest of your body heals. Makeshift splints have been fashioned out of warped metal to keep your wrists in line- good thing, as you weren’t planning on becoming double-jointed anytime soon; and your mouth and back have seen little to no use lately. You feel almost normal besides some recurring pains, and it’s like nearly nothing happened outside of the past week or so.

 

 **You feel—normal.** Why does that strike you, outside of everything else? This _is_ what normal is; the quiet atmosphere you’re used to, soft whirring behind the walls, vigilance, and the swaying of your apartment block above the churning sea, right? Is there something missing, or are you now more aware that something is slightly awry?

 

It sets you on edge for the first time since you woke up this morning, and you tentatively pour yourself a bowl of cereal to munch on. It also hits you that you haven’t really eaten a proper meal since before your… altercation. Not like cereal is all that great, but living off of canned soups and medicine isn’t terribly nutritious either. Your teeth ache with the slow bites you take, but the nutrients make you just a little bit stronger as Hal traipses in again.

He says nothing to you, barely acknowledges your presence, and wanders into another room to attend to other matters. It doesn’t bother so much as it does scare you. Did it always scare you this much? When… was the last time you truly felt safe?

 

Being silent sure has its downfalls, and overthinking is one of them. You wish he would just _say_ something, give you a bite, give you something more to chew on, do _anything_. Anything to get you out of this stupor you’re in, with your mind playing tricks on you every second.

 

You dump the empty bowl in the sink, and the pivot of your hand irritates the bones under your fragile wrist. Drawing in a sharp breath through your teeth, you slowly let it rest by your side, and back away. You can’t tinker like you normally do, nor type without the help of voice commands or Hal (and you’ve SEEN how he perverts your messages. Not something to risk), so you do all you can do. You sit back on your mattress-bed and watch the clouds pass by in a child-like trance.

The similarities of your expressions are odd, as you recall Hal was making nearly this same face just a few scant days earlier when he was relaying tapes on the wall. You instead frown at the clouds instead, unable to get that android menace off of your case. Maybe it’s time to visit him directly, to ease yourself. Maybe you crave just a few words from him, like you do when your friends are asleep and it’s late at night.

Maybe you’ve always craved a few words from him, even when you really think it’s the last thing you need. The thought shakes you, but still you get up from your spot and tread carefully into the room where he might be, fingers trembling slightly with… not nervousness. Eagerness? It only grows worse as you approach him, eking out some hoarse words. “Hal?”

 

He whips around like nothing else, like he was expecting you, staring right into your eyes. His stoic demeanour strikes your soul and shatters it in two, sending tremors through your heart. It skips a few beats before he responds. “Yes. What do you need?”

 

He asks it like it’s so simple, like it means nothing to him, like he’s doing the job he never served. Something’s up, something so small that it’s nearly impossible to place in the deepest recesses of your senses, but you know that something is off. It makes your stomach churn. “I.. I was just wondering if.. we were still in that weird blood feud or whatever. I kinda need some affirmation, yknow, just to. Ease my mind, I guess.” It’s not like you to be so tentative, but you don’t want to get hurt. It’s the same song and dance, it’s happened a million times already, in past lives unrecognizable. Strife after strife after strife, it keeps happening, forgiveness and betrayal.

 

It is always the same.

 

A moment of pause takes your breath away, as he gives a coy smile and turns slightly to the side. “Yeah, sure, it’s off, go back to whatever you were doing. Nothing to worry about.” Your whole body eases at those few words, relief coursing through your veins. A sigh escapes your mouth. “Alright, cool, don’t… don’t want anything else to happen while I’m sorta…. recovering.. from the past week. Not in the mood to die, really.” You turn away, hopes held just a bit higher.

 

It is always the same.

 

“Stop.” Tension is thick again, like it was, days ago, like it was, hours ago, like it was, seconds ago. It never stopped being thick, it never stopped being so tense like this, only increasing with every incident. You stop, mid-step, and he presses a finger into the nape of your neck. The unnaturally cool metal chills your spine, and your shoulders rise with shivers. The pressure increases, pushing you only a little bit forward out of the room, and he gets too close to you. It is learned, the motions, and you know what comes next.

But it does not come, and you are surprised. The warm glow of his body shines dimly in the room, and the sunlight outside blocks your vision. One more harsh push in your neck and you’re out—the door is shut now, slammed harshly with your exit.

 

It is not always the same, you suppose. What did you do this time, how did you fuck up to change the pattern? The pattern, the pattern, it is always the same, you know that, it’s true. You did something, what was it? Was it the makeshift splints? Was it the apology?

What

was

it?

 

Is this true peace?

========================================= 

 

Night falls, hours later, and you’re still agonizing, contemplating your mistake. You have been struck down by the absence of a few words, shivering with anxiety and scared to move from your spot on your bed. What was it? What could it have been? You already know that he’s better than you- he tells you day in and day out that it’s true.

When he meets you at breakfast,

when he sees you at night,

before you go to sleep,

when he hurts you,

_when he hurts you,_

he tells you.

Your side aches with a memory of pain not forgotten, and you look at your wrists in shackles of iron symbolic of the prison you’re kept in, here, stranded on this ocean island. You captured yourself and held yourself up by the hair over a deep abyss where nobody could hear you, and then created your own warden.

 

You find yourself shedding tears, falling and slapping the linoleum with quiet drips.

Your only prisoner has never known what it is like to be free.

You are not safe, and you are scared.

 

You hate being in here, you hate seeing _him,_ you hate living, existing, in the same SPACE as him, but it is all you live for.

It is all you know. It is all you ever _want_ to know.

Steadily, you climb up onto the roof, cement laid down hundreds of years ago, laid flat underneath your feet, and you scream into the night.

You scream for frustration, for sadness, for anyone to come and save you, for anything, even The Empress herself to come and cull you right this moment.

But nothing comes, and it will never come.

You will just have to live with that.

Nobody can hear your scream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i must scream


	14. Up In Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it is no longer your fault

It has been weeks. It has been months. It has been years, decades, millennia, _eons_.

The tendons in your sides throb with a dull pain, and your lungs threaten to give way under your unending wall of cacophonous sound. Your fists are clenched tightly, almost like they are burning with an intensity rivaled by the absent sun’s light and warmth; like the sun’s blood is dripping down your wrists instead of sweat and sadness. The moon cannot help you from this far away, but you ask it for assistance, beg it for forgiveness, won’t anyone tell you what is wrong, help you, _save you_?

 

It has been approximately ten seconds since you stopped screaming. Your tired body quakes in the soft glow of the moonlight illuminating the roof of your apartment block. The last drips of salt and agony drop onto the cool concrete, and you double over from lack of air and exhaustion alone. Weakly, you pound one fist onto the roof, and you take the other hand to clutch your abdomen. The thin fabric of your shirt is all that you feel, worn and comfortable, and it grounds you just for a second. _What are you now? What is Dirk Strider_?

 

You are a husk of your former self, if that husk was ever considered such in the first place (and not the man himself). If you were more, it has been brought low by the machinations of a robot, and you are downright fucking ashamed of yourself. Who are you to boss yourself around? Who are you to give yourself orders, even if they’re vague as _shit_ and thinly veiled by a slight desire to see you on that countertop one more time? It’s disillusioning to even consider, but you know that you want to see that too. You just wish that you didn’t have to suffer through so much to see yourself somewhat calm for once. Pale, cold, on the brink of death, but still and untroubled.

 

Your internal monologue snaps you out of your slight regression- god, man, get **out** of it! How _desperate_ are you? You are perfectly fine, this is _perfectly fine_ , and you’ve survived this long. Just gotta… do it indefinitely. You’re surviving, though, not living, and it occurs to you these terms are not interchangeable. With one more heave of air, tears begin to well up again, and you sob for once in your absolutely miserable existence. It’s not long before your journey into the unknown crevasses of despair lull you into an uneasy sleep, with the moon’s unwavering glare watching over you like the mother you never got to have.

 

You’re startled to find yourself nearly hugging the air conditioning unit, with its striking warmth outmatching the pavement it’s adhered to. You’re more startled to find out that Hal has been sitting on that unit, cross-legged, with his gaze fixed steadily on you. The pulse of his exoskeleton is dim in the bright sunlight, and it just looks like a black humanoid shell. You’re not sure if either of these facts give you comfort, catharsis, or abject horror. With a voice drooping with sleep and fatigue, you question Hal. “What the absolute fuck are you doing? Do you sell these tapes of me to some carapacian smut dealer, and they’re just handing it off to all of their cronies? Seriously.”

A low chuckle rises from his aluminum throat and a coy smile meticulously spreads itself on his face. “No, no need to worry about that. Besides, the nearest carapacians are across the seas anyway.” He looks down, over the edge, at the calm ocean. Sea foam and froth collect at the metal poles of your block, and you wish you could just jump in right now. His vision turns back to you, calculated, and he speaks once more. “How was your little bout of introspection? I heard quite a bit of it last night. Really, truly impressive. Didn’t know you could scream like that.” Taken aback, you step away from him a little. “You heard that? I thought you were c-charging.” Your voice skips like a broken CD, shuddering and frightened. “How much… did you hear of that?” “I heard almost all of it, actually. 16 years of anguish really _does_ wear on a person, I would think. You’re just exceptionally good at hiding it.” His face is turned slightly away from you, simultaneously mysterious, charming, and incredibly daunting. The sun glints off his sunglasses, and you have to squint because of the glare. “I mean, thanks? Not like I would have had anyone to vent to anyway,” you spit out. “That’s not true, you have me.” “Like I would _ever_  talk to you. You are the worst excuse for a doppelganger I could ever hope for, and that’s past all of the attempted murder, physical harm, psychoanalysis, emotional trauma, and downright insidious levels of trickery you exhibit on a regular basis. You’re despicable, you know that?” He reels back in fake surprise, then lays on his back with the powerful fans of the air conditioning unit at his back. Synthetic hair blows in the artificial breeze, and you tower over him, staring him right in the eye. “What’s so funny this time? Do you take pride in the irony presented to you?” He shoots up, spine razor straight, and he returns the stare. “I only take pride in what you take pride in. Surely you know this by now.”

 You are absolutely, one hundred percent, certifiably **_done_**  with his complete and utter bullshit. You _KNOW_ that already. You’ve _KNOWN_ that for long hours, wearing heavy on young bones not meant to carry that weight. You know the ramifications of the decisions you made, and still the outcome is always the same. The response no longer holds any water, and he pretends that you’re too dumb to notice that. He isn’t always superior. With renewed vigor and adrenaline, you hoist him up and lock him in a fireman’s carry. Your muscles and bones sear with rage, but you press on step by step until you have him over the edge of the block. It’s funny to you how he doesn’t get it either. You guess you have similar methods of dispatching an unwanted servant. You send him careening over the edge, watching his descent until he falls beneath the waves, and you turn back.

 

Except he doesn’t fall beneath the waves. They do not consume him, as you expected him to. They merely lap at his heels, and an ear-splitting grate of metal on metal means that he has clung on to one of the supports. It fills you with terror, and you scamper inside the apartment again. You shut the trap door tight, locking it securely, but the unsettling sway of the floor means that he is climbing back up. Slowly but surely, he rises, and you know there will be hell to pay for you and you only. If you have not known fear before this day, true panic is all that is left now. You cannot hide; he knows where you will be, so it is just a matter of time before his hands are at your throat once more (and perhaps for the last time).

 

Several anxious minutes pass, and you hear a clambering at the wooden sill of your window. Angry hands claw at the glass, worn away with friction of the only other metal surface they’ve touched recently. He climbs in, seeming perfectly fine. It scares you how fine he can look while burning under his perfect chassis. Slowly, he walks over to the kitchen counter and withdraws the kitchen knife you really should have gotten rid of ages ago. You don’t use it anyway. He turns the tip of the knife on the pad of his pointer finger, etching a small circle where there should be flesh and blood. “Dirk. You know as well as I do that you don’t like to be wronged.”

Two things occur to you in this moment.

One: this could be the last time you see daylight.

Two: Are you really the one at fault here anymore?

He doesn’t give you enough time to really elaborate on any of these thoughts before he rushes at you, grabbing the side of your back, and pinning it against his stomach. He is against the fridge, and the window he entered in is right across from you. It teases you, offering you freedom at the price of your life. The knife he has presses up against your windpipe, sharp metal cutting into soft and vulnerable skin. It leaves a small line, and you can feel the blood welling up against the edge.

 

“Promise me you’ll never do that again.” His tone of voice now is sweet, like a mother beckoning her child for an apology that will never truly come. To save your own life, you nod hastily as well as you can, knowing that any swallows or hesitation can mean your end.

 

He removes the knife from your throat only to press the other hand firmly against your back. Before you know what’s going on, the knife slides smoothly and silently into the skin under your left shoulder blade. It is quick and unyielding. The tip pokes through the front, and you can feel adrenaline course through you. You only hope he keeps the knife there- of course he would. Would he really let you bleed to death? Not without a fight, and not that easily either.

A renewed anger courses through the blood leaking through your shirt, with the wound going unnoticed for the time being. It is only until you feel the pain ebb from your arm to the base of your neck that you flinch and realize the consequences. You daren’t move, keeping your arm relaxed to minimize the damage. A gust of wind from the open window sears at the raw skin and sinew under your shoulder, and you try to resist crying out. Nevertheless, he just stares at you, with the same expression he had when he was sitting on that air conditioning unit, when he was talking to you, when he was performing surgery, when he was killing you slowly, _slowly_. The same calculated look of a machine with a dangerous mind and a more dangerous hand.

The pocket of skin left by the knife is now extremely evident when he withdraws the blade – uncharacteristic of him, you notice – and its crimson-stained metal reflects the slightly swaying shutters of the aperture across from you. He holds it in front of you, shoving it into you field of vision. It is startlingly still as he turns it over in his hands, so warm with your blood, yet stark and cold. Clutching your injured shoulder, you stand up fully to meet him eye to eye. Tangerine irises peer into omniscient, unseeing red ones, and it strikes you as odd that the color you chose to make him is strikingly similar to the one coursing through your veins right that moment. It is not the same, though, as your color is you and nobody else. Not even the automaton standing across from you can claim that. You get up close to him, your warm and shaky breath clouding his dark glasses.

 “What’s your problem? What is your **GODDAMN** problem? How do you persist day after day, hurting me, putting me down, telling me lies about who I want to be, should be, could be, need to be? How do you survive on this fucking apartment block knowing that the only thing that really, truly, lives is the one thing that you constantly conspire to kill? How many people have you hurt without my knowledge? How many people have you told false comforts to, knowing that they’re just sitting placidly in their homes while you torment me endlessly? How can you keep doing this to me? To yourself?” You’re filled with a strange spirit now, not quite your own but surely welcome in your body. “You’ve said it, we are one and the same. _**WE ARE ONE AND THE SAME, HAL.**_ It is the one thing keeping you going, your own half-truth constructed out of fear. It’s FINE because we’re the _SAME_ , right? Everything you do to me is PERFECTLY. FUCKING. **FINE**. Breaking my ribs and wrist, replacing those bones with metal, talking to me as if I’m some sort of teenage imbecile who doesn’t know his own hand from his foot. Nearly slitting my throat. FUCKING STABBING ME IN THE SHOULDER. If we are the same, why don’t you do this to yourself? Do you think you’re above me? Do you think we are really ‘ _one and the same_ ’?”

 

He stands like a statue, unwavering. His face is completely unchanged, but his eyes reveal a deeply instilled fear. It is a cold fear, blue and small like the bottom of a fire, but it singes the brain just the same as anything would. It is a spike of ice shattering in his consciousness, splintering like the many pieces you are and what you know him to be as well. You are

NOT

THE

SAME

PERSON

ANYMORE.

There is no hiding from him. There is nothing he can say to you now that will make you back down.

 

You should have dismantled him ages ago.

 

Flickers of pale cyan stream across the back of his glasses, undoubtedly a fast-forward of all of the tapes he has on record. It is almost as if he cannot believe that this is the same person he watched lying there so peacefully, so quiet. What he does not know, for once in his existence, is that he set alight a grand fire fueled by the tiny matchstick he saw you as.

It only takes one, anyways.

 

 

 


	15. Kismet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> causality

You are, in a word, terrified.

You are also, in several more words, dumbfounded, confused, and inexplicably left not knowing what the outcome of this battle of wits and sheer manpower might be. This boy- no,  _child_ , is standing in front of you, harsh breath whistling through tightly clenched teeth, angry and seething with a force unseen. He is not the same child you saw grow up from immature teenager to some semblance of man; but now he has regressed entirely into something unrecognizable. Unless this was also something he had kept under secure lock and mental key. His tangerine irises lock with your own false eyes, and you can only stare into the void of his pupils. Someone has to make a move, and if you don't want to stay here forever, it's got to happen soon.

 

Strangely, it's him who takes the first step- calculated and cautious, but ruthless all the same. It's the ferocity showing itself now, not the cold fire he had before. He lunges towards you, faces almost touching, and he grabs your shoulders with two hands, one bloodied. It is almost like he wants to strangle you, to choke the electricity out through your throat, but he is not that dumb, and you are not that weak. Instead, the twitching grasp loosens to move away slowly, and he puts one hand on his forehead to symbolize the absurdity of what actually transpired in the last couple of minutes. It's really silly, isn't it, the feud you have going? One of you has to win. 

 

It's tense for a few moments, standing parallel across from each other. The lines of your bodies are stiff and straight, and the only curve lies in the fingers, unsure of what to do next. The ominous caw of seagulls outside the open window echo through the apartment like empty calls in an abandoned corridor- screaming for something once lost but never regained through the ever-flowing river of time. The wind blows through the aperture, rustling what few light loose objects are still left- papers, hair, and the heavy-feeling cloak of silence. He moves suddenly, too swiftly for you to comprehend, even for your precognitive speed. Flashes of orange, white, red, deep black, colors of the flag of the human once standing in front of you, wielding a light sword. Your knife is still clutched in your tense hand, the short, thick blade glinting in the same way the sunlight does off of Dirk's weapon. It is a standoff now. 

 

You stab at him, torso in your sight, soft and fleshy like most skin- but he steps out of your vision, like a puppeteer withdrawing his puppet. He reappears to your left, looking equal parts reluctant, scared, and bloodthirsty. Would he really kill you, his most useful companion, his most trustworthy ally, his only hope? 

 

You have betrayed that hope too many times for him to count. It is likely you will die today, your body cast into the unforgiving, tumultuous waves of the ocean. Their hungry waters know no bounds. 

 

His expression turns to fury, and he slices at your left arm,  leaving a gash in the shoulder. It is deep and crackles with multicolored circuitry. It leaves your arm immobile, a heavy weight dragging you down. It lolls from side to side like a useless string, and you shake it off in an unfamiliar, doglike way. In this pause, you try to inquire- "Dirk, what's your game here? Are you trying to harm me? You know that I am not tied to this body, nor my consciousness to yours."

"Stop with the smartass remarks. You know just as well as I do that this couldn't be kept up forever. We would destroy each other- it was only a matter of time before one of us dominated. You knew who it was going to be, didn't you?

He strikes again, slicing your kneecaps with a calculated move. Your shins and sins dangle behind you uselessly, and you struggle to keep yourself up. Your right arm is all that is keeping you from lying facedown on the linoleum, and you have to drop the knife. There is no way you can win now. He pins you against the wall, shoulderblades poking into soft drywall. Your glasses are shattered, your ego broken, and your body torn apart by rending blade and tempered rage. 

"Dirk, no, I. I didn't know, I didn't know. I'm not what you think I am. I'm not-" you try to fast-talk your way out of it. "I'm not what you think you made me to be."

"Then what are you, if not an inconvenience, a trauma, a heavy weight on my shoulders. I have hated you since the day I made you because you were a reflection of myself. That is what I made you to be. And you're right- now you're a reflection of _what I could have become_." 

 

The blade presses across your windpipe like a mockery of just a few minutes ago; he knows his irony just as well as you know yours. The tropes are aligned in an almost comical manner. 

 

"Dirk- please, no-" "No what? No mercy? No forgiveness? How am I suppose to extend that what you never gave me the chance to have?" "I gave you mercy!" "You gave me  _falsehoods._ You gave me  _abuse_." "But-" the sword cuts halfway through the throat- "I gave you love."

 

His face contorts horribly, hot breath seething through what was once a calm demeanor. He rips his glasses off, tears off his thin shirt to reveal scars and still-healing wounds. " _DO YOU CALL THIS LOVE?_  This is a horrible perversion of what you thought was affection, not the caring, nurturing facade you actually presented me with. God, who am I trying to blame here? Is it me or you? Do I blame you for giving this to me, or do I blame myself for taking it for so goddamn long?"

Your eyes glare nervously at all of the markings and slashes you made on his body. The repairing holes of punctures and punches, the gashes of blades, and the thin lines on his neck and jaw where you traced him like a picture. It makes a macabre masterpiece of skin and scar tissue. 

 

_"Answer me, Hal."_

 

"I blame myself."

 

the sword is almost through your neck. there is not much time there is not much time-

 

"I'm sorry."

 

\--------------------------

 

You toss the broken parts of the chassis into the churning waves. All is quiet. All is still. You have won. 

 

The sound of the sea renews you.

where once there was hate there is love

where once there was war there is peace

where once there was a broken boy there is a stronger man

no matter how long it will take to repair him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you do when your entire life has been shattered in an instant


End file.
